"  B  O  B  B  O  " 

AND    OTHER    FANCIES 

BY 

THOMAS    WHARTON 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY  OWEN  WISTER 
ILLUSTRATED 


NEW     YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
1897 


Copyright,  1897,  by  HARPKR  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


•-•••''••; 
-  *     ••.."•'*•      ';  : 


UJV3 


The  Publishers  of  this  volume  desire  to  express 
their  thanks  to  the  editors  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
of  Puck,  and  of  the  Philadelphia  Times  for  their 
courteous  permission  to  collect  here  certain  pieces 
which  Mr.  Wharton  contributed  to  their  pages. 


340415 


CONTENTS 


"BOBBO" * 

THE  LAST  SONNET  OF  PRINZIVALLE  DI  CEM- 

BINO 55 

RATU  TANITO'S  WOOING 95 

OLD  AND  NEW in 

VERSES 125 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


THOMAS   WHARTON Frontispiece 

ILLUSTRATED   HALF-TITLE p.    i 

"HE       HAD       BEEN      OUT      VERY       LATE 

HIMSELF" Facing  p.  4 

"  AND  EVERY  TIME  THE  PRINCESS  SIGHS  "  "  8 

THE  MAGISTRATE "  10 

"AND  LOOKED  DEVASTATION  AT  THE 

MAGISTRATE" "  14 

"PAUL  PATUREAU  RETURNED  TO  HIS 

SENSES" "  50 

THE  FIRST  MEETING "  62 

IN  THE  GARDEN "  84 

"SLEW  HIM  LIKE  A  TRAITOR"  ...  "  88 
"AND  THE  POOR  CHILD  BROKE  DOWN 

AND  CRIED" "  94 


IN   MEMORY   OF  THOMAS 
WHARTON 

THE  first  story  in  this  book  is  al 
most  the  last  published  by  its  author: 
it  is  also  the  best  that  he  ever  wrote. 
To  those  who  knew  him,  it  is  doubly 
sad  that  just  as  his  long  waiting  for 
success  seemed  really  ended,  just  as  he 
seemed  really  to  be  coming  to  his  own, 
death  should  have  removed  him  from 
the  world.  He  was  not  young,  except 
in  heart — he  lived  to  his  thirty-seventh 
year.  His  writing,  both  prose  and  verse, 
began  in  his  boyhood,  and  continued  to 
the  latest  days  with  something  more 
than  diligence.  In  the  earliest  days  he 
had  always  some  new  delicate  or  divert- 

ix 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

ing  rhymes  to  impart,  some  new  literary 
plan  in  his  head,  and  in  the  final  week 
of  his  life  it  was  the  same ;  only  then 
the  plan  was  no  longer  unsubstantial, 
but  a  contract  with  a  prominent  Lon 
don  and  New  York  house  for  a  volume. 
This  project  itself  postponed  a  collabo 
rated  romance,  which  a  leading  New 
York  weekly  was  ready  to  publish  se 
rially  when  it  should  be  completed. 
Even  the  proposed  illustrator  had  been 
decided  upon.  Thus  the  writer's  hand 
was  not  near,  but  had  laid  its  first  act 
ual  hold  upon  the  success  towards 
which  he  had  been  groping  for  many 
patient,  dauntless  years. 

Thomas  Wharton  made  the  usual 
beginnings  of  the  writer  who  goes  to 
school  and  college.  His  verses  were 
soon  taken  by  the  journals  of  the  insti 
tutions  to  which  he  was  sent ;  and  this 
author's  first  appearance  in  print,  at 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

fifteen,  was  (the  case  has  been  known 
to  happen  before)  a  translation  from 
the  Odes  of  Horace.  It  has  in  Whar- 
ton's  instance  this  point :  first  and  last, 
he  was  a  scholar,  an  accurate  reader, 
an  investigating  student,  delighting  in 
the  world's  literature,  from  Greece  to 
America ;  possessed  of  a  wholesome 
catholic  taste,  because  the  grain  of  his 
mind  was  civilized  by  inheritance  and 
acquisition. 

The  peculiar  native  thread  of  his  own 
imagination  was  slender,  but  it  never 
broke.  For  a  time,  however,  it  lost  it 
self  in  the  multitude  of  books  which  he 
admired,  and  Thomas  Wharton  often 
wrote  under  the  spell  of  his  favorites 
before  he  learned  to  write  like  himself, 
and  under  his  own  spell  alone.  This, 
and  another  thing  presently  to  be  men 
tioned,  hampered  him  in  his  first  more 
serious  ventures. 

2  xi 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

From  the  Horace  Ode  until,  when 
twenty  -  four,  he  attained  the  Atlantic 
Monthly ',  his  light  verses  were  constant 
in  various  more  modest  columns.  He 
wrote  with  remarkable  ease,  and  almost 
always  with  a  certain  crisp  happiness 
which  distinguished  these  trifles  of  his 
from  those  of  his  college  literary  con 
temporaries.  The  undergraduate  poet 
is  seldom  so  precocious  at  the  mere 
craft  of  his  art. 

His  college  days  over,  it  seemed  not 
only  traditional  but  also  necessary  that 
Thomas  Wharton  should  follow  the  law 
— indeed,  had  the  choice  not  faced  him 
from  without,  it  is  likely  he  would  have 
made  it  readily  enough.  Yet  his  was 
not  the  proper  temperament  for  suc 
cess  as  a  modern  advocate;  besides,  too 
many  other  things  were  in  his  head. 
In  recording  the  merely  mechanical  in 
cidents  of  his  career,  let  it  be  said  once 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

for  all  that  he  duly  became  a  member 
of  the  Philadelphia  bar;  that  he  was 
later  in  a  Trust  Company,  searching  ti 
tles  and  devising  romance ;  that  in  the 
autumn  of  1888  he  went  on  the  edito 
rial  staff  of  the  Times,  of  which  he  was 
Sunday  editor  at  the  time  of  his  death. 
Publishing  verse  ceased  almost  entire 
ly  when  he  began  his  study  of  the  law ; 
but  in  January,  1884,  Thomas  Wharton 
brought  out  his  first  novel,  A  Latter- 
day  Saint.  It  was  a  satirical  narrative, 
the  career  of  a  girl  who  from  a  fashion 
able  school  for  young  ladies  comes  into 
good  society  "on  the  make,"  to  use  the 
briefest  expression.  For  a  writer  of 
twenty-five  it  was  better  than  credita 
ble.  Much  of  it  was  shrewdly  observed, 
most  of  it  was  well  said.  Though  The 
Confessions  of  a  Frivolous  Girl  preceded 
it,  a  comparison  of  these  two  clever 
books  will  show  Wharton's  (in  spite  of 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

some  shortcomings  which  the  other  has 
not)  to  possess  the  keener  and  compact- 
er  power.  The  story  is  forgotten  now  ; 
never  was  it  widely  known ;  and  its  ex 
piring  upon  its  own  door-step  suggests 
the  second  obstacle  which  met  Whar- 
ton. 

When  in  Boston  any  fellow- citizen 
paints  a  picture  or  writes  a  book,  he  is 
approached  and  fostered  for  Boston's 
sake  and  in  Boston's  name.  We  of 
Philadelphia  steer  quite  wide  of  this 
amiable  if  hasty  encouragement.  We 
seem  to  distrust  our  own  power  to  do 
anything  out  of  the  common  ;  and  when 
a  young  man  tries  to,  our  minds  close 
against  him  with  a  civic  instinct  of  dis 
paragement.  A  Boston  failure  in  art 
surprises  Boston ;  it  is  success  that  sur 
prises  Philadelphia.  We  are  all  guilty 
of  this  extraordinary  unheartiness  tow 
ards  our  own,  and  perhaps  the  best  that 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

can  be  said  for  it  is,  that  it  is  a  prudent 
method  for  escaping  disappointment. 

This  chill  fell  upon  Thomas  Whar- 
ton.  It  did  not  prevent  his  going  on, 
because  he  was  a  courageous  fighter; 
but  it  unquestionably  began  that  isola 
tion  from  his  kind  which  lost  him  so 
much  sunshine  as  his  years  proceeded 
into  their  deeper  loneliness.  His  next 
venture  was  upon  a  plane  more  ambi 
tious. 

Hannibal  of  New  York  was  published 
in  August,  1886.  It  is  a  study  of  man 
ners  in  Newport  and  Wall  Street.  In 
it  two  magnates,  their  families,  and  their 
fortunes,  are  pictured  and  contrasted 
with  much  careful  elaboration  and  with 
many  pertinent  accessories.  Most  of 
the  scenes  have  interest,  some  of  them 
hit  out  straight  with  genuine  power. 
There  is  no  lack  of  diverting  talk,  and 
one  or  two  descriptions  reveal  a  charm 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

and  a  fancy  which  were  the  real  Thomas 
Wharton.  This  novel  is  better  worth 
reading  to-day  than  many  that  had  a 
more  popular  success  at  that  time.  The 
undertaking  was  too  bold.  Wharton  did 
not  know  his  magnate  with  a  knowledge 
sufficiently  ripe.  Furthermore,  he  wrote 
at  his  usual  disadvantage  of  being  under 
the  spell  of  a  favorite.  He  suffered  just 
then,  as  it  were,  from  a  contagion  of 
Thackeray.  His  whole  mesmerized  nat 
ure  was  bent  on  producing  in  this  day 
and  generation  the  style  and  atmosphere 
of  that  great  master.  Nobody  saw  more 
plainly  than  Wharton  himself  came  later 
to  see,  how  fallacious  and  perverting 
such  a  method  in  Art  must  inevitably 
be,  how  it  destroys  the  spontaneous,  how 
it  fabricates  the  artificial.  Yet  Hannibal 
of  New  York  is  a  far  better,  stronger 
book  than  those  who  did  not  read  it 
would  admit ;  and  a  town  must  be  rich 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

in  distinguished  men  of  letters  to  be  so 
easy  in  objection,  so  torpid  in  approval, 
as  was  Philadelphia  concerning  Hanni 
bal  of  New  York. 

During  these  years  Thomas  Wharton 
wrote  also  occasional  pieces  of  prose 
and  verse,  mostly  contributed  to  Puck, 
and  his  account  of  a  journey  to  Eng 
land  and  back  in  the  steerages  of  the 
Oregon  and  the  Alaska,  published  in 
Lippincott' s  Magazine  for  February, 
1885,  is  an  admirable  article.  The  chief 
criticism  of  the  neighborhood  was,  that 
it  seemed  odd  to  go  in  the  steerage.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  Wharton's  pecul 
iar  individual  gift  began  to  show  itself, 
though  at  first  in  unprofitable  ways. 
His  very  marked  disposition  for  music, 
of  which  mention  has  been  reserved  un 
til  here,  took  him  constantly  to  the 
opera  and  constantly  to  the  piano.  He 
knew  the  Germans,  the  Italians,  and 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

the  French  familiarly,  and  the  opera  co- 
mique  of  the  latter  gave  him  a  desire  to 
write  libretti.  Half  romantic  and  half 
humorous,  he  turned  to  the  past — to  the 
court  of  Charlemagne,  to  the  temples  of 
Montezuma,  and  at  length  to  the  Paris 
streets  as  Villon  knew  them.  Spaniards, 
Aztecs,  and  Paladins  began  to  march 
through  his  pages.  The  loves  of  Emma 
and  Eginhard  were  dramatized;  conspir 
acies  and  balconies  abounded  here ;  here 
Orlando  shouted  songs  about  Durandal 
and  Bayard.  As  the  quality  of  Char 
lemagne  was  Gothic  and  feudal,  even 
in  its  lightness,  so  did  Wharton  manage 
to  invest  his  Montezuma  with  a  trop 
ical  atmosphere.  Had  he  met  with  an 
adequate  composer,  such  as  the  au 
thor  of  Fra  Diavolo,  or  with  a  public 
trained  to  the  appreciation  of  true  ope 
ra  comique,  Wharton  would  have  found 
prosperity  and  distinction  at  once.  As 

xviii 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

it  was,  his  delicate  labors  went  for  noth 
ing,  except  to  help  him  towards  his  ap 
propriate  path. 

The  newspaper  work  he  began  to  be 
busied  over  in  1888  was  mistakenly 
thought  by  his  friends  a  disadvantage. 
It  gave  him  mastery  of  his  ultimate 
style — at  once  compact,  rapid,  and  sin 
gularly  graceful.  For  while  in  the  col 
umns  of  the  Times  he  dealt  with  mat 
ters  municipal  and  editorial  generally, 
his  fancy  was  asserting  itself  aside  from 
these  as  his  pen  became  the  readier. 
Certain  stories  in  Puck  showed  the  new 
departure  he  was  taking,  and  by  1892 
Wharton  had  learned  what  he  could  do. 
A  misfortune  contributed  to  this  knowl 
edge  of  himself.  The  Times  building 
burned  down,  and  his  manuscripts  per 
ished.  From  his  gayety  after  this  you 
might  have  imagined  it  was  a  joke  to 
him.  But  when  one  who  had  the  right 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

to  know  more  inquired  particulars,  Whar- 
ton  replied,  simply  and  with  his  invet 
erate  stoicism :  "  Never  ask  me  what  I 
lost  there  — all  I  had!"  He  did  not 
seem  able  to  speak  the  language  of  com 
plaint.  If  he  was  aware  that  he  de 
served  more  recognition,  a  heartier  hand, 
from  his  native  town,  he  never  said  a 
word  to  make  any  one  else  aware  of  it. 
From  the  ashes  of  the  Times  fire  he 
came  out  to  make  new  manuscripts  and 
better  ones.  It  is  possible,  it  is  proba 
ble,  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
rewrite  the  novel  which  had  lain  nearly 
finished  in  his  desk,  nor  The  Enchirid 
ion  of  Demoiselles,  a  diverting  piece  of 
humor  and  fancy  that  appeared  later 
in  different  and  briefer  guise.  He  pre 
ferred  to  strike  out,  leaving  the  old  be 
hind;  and  this,  it  certainly  seems,  help 
ed  him  to  find  the  field  he  was  meant 
for. 

XX 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

He  went  forward  from  Charlemagne 
and  Montezuma.  The  manners  of  to 
day,  the  modern  novel,  Newport  and 
Wall  Street,  were  not  for  him.  His 
talent  did  not  by  nature  wear  modern 
dress,  but  moved  fancifully  in  costume ; 
quaint,  tender,  romantic,  satirical,  or 
merely  facetious,  as  the  case  might 
be,  but  in  costume  always,  and  always 
graceful.  He  belonged  to  the  rare 
tribe  that  writes  fabliaux ;  and  once 
he  had  come  to  a  knowledge  of  this, 
he  seldom  touched  Newport  or  Wall 
Street  again.  Francois  Villon,  a  ro 
mantic  opera  in  four  acts,  written  in 
collaboration,  was  his  maturest  work  of 
the  dramatic  order,  and  his  lyric  gift  in 
it  throughout  is  certainly  remarkable. 
It  is  a  pity  that  so  many  of  these  hap 
piest  verses  of  his  require  the  context  of 
the  situation,  and  are  unavailable  in  any 
other  setting;  certain  ones,  however, 

xxi 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

are  placed  here  to  express  this  side  of 
the  author's  talent. 

Thus,  apart  from  his  newspaper  work, 
Wharton  came  more  and  more  to  move 
in  a  world  of  his  own.  None  save  his 
few  near  friends  knew  about  him,  or  his 
hours,  or  his  ways.  His  scant  holidays 
were  generally  spent  remotely  by  or 
upon  the  sea,  for  he  loved  the  sand  and 
the  salt-water,  while  nearer  home  his 
recreation  and  chief  touch  with  the 
world  of  men  was  upon  the  cricket- 
field  :  the  world  of  boys,  it  should  rath 
er  be  said,  for  this  manly  soul  lived  and 
died  a  boy  at  heart.  Out  on  the  colo 
nial  porches  of  the  club,  by  the  edge 
of  the  flat,  green  grass,  and  in  mirthful 
communion  with  the  white -flannelled 
players  as  they  loafed  and  gossiped, 
you  might  see  Wharton  when  office 
hours  were  up.  He  would  listen  to  the 
cricket  talk,  impetuous  in  praise  and 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

advice,  hot  in  the  banter,  never  laugh 
ing  more  heartily  than  when  the  joke  fell 
upon  himself.  Or  else,  up-stairs,  when 
evening  came  and  dinner-time,  out  on 
the  porch  there  with  a  book,  to  dine, 
and  to  look  over  the  green  with  sudden 
ly  absent  eyes.  Here  often,  when  the 
boys  had  gone  to  their  homes,  would 
Wharton's  lonely  figure  sit  in  the  dusk, 
and  he  would  sip  claret  and  dream  un 
til  time  for  the  office  and  the  suburban 
train  took  him  away. 

His  wide  reading,  his  music,  his  many 
tastes,  gave  him,  of  course,  an  unusual 
equipment  for  journalism ;  and  when 
required  he  could  write  a  notice  of  a 
foreign  book,  or  of  a  symphony  con 
cert,  or  of  a  Wagner  opera,  with  more 
poise  and  cultivation  of  judgment  than 
many,  than  most,  of  his  brotherhood. 
It  is  uncommon  in  journalism  to  find 
any  one  man  so  well  seasoned  with  va- 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

rious  specialties.  He  did  not  have  to 
run  to  a  book  of  reference,  he  wrote 
from  the  familiarity  of  years.  His  taste 
in  painting  was  perhaps  the  least  one 
with  him,  and  certainly  the  one  least 
attended  to ;  but  here  also  his  sound 
mind  and  sound  body  helped  him  to 
see  straight,  think  clearly,  and  abstain 
from  nonsense.  After  an  exhibition 
of  Impressionist  pictures  in  New  York 
(whither  he  would  often  eccentrically 
drift  on  his  "  day  off  "  to  see  some  op 
era,  or  prize-fighter,  or  what  not),  he  re 
turned  with  a  set  of  verses,  of  which 
this  was  the  final  one : 

"And  if  the  purple  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of 

purple  day, 
And  the  purple  herd  winds  lowing  upon 

the  purple  lea, 
And  the  purple  ploughman  homeward  plods 

his  purple  way, 

You  may  leave  the  world  to  darkness — 
but  don't  leave  it  to  me." 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

Who  that  knew  him  cannot  hear  him 
saying  that? 

His  Bobbo,  published  in  1895,  was  the 
sign  he  had  arrived.  Not  only  did  Phil 
adelphia  rub  its  eyes  and  declare  that, 
after  all,  here  was  a  good  thing,  but 
much  wider  recognition  than  this  came 
to  him.  An  American  composer  re 
quested  him  to  dramatize  it  for  a  light 
opera;  an  English  manager  and  play 
wright  cabled  for  permission  to  do  the 
same.  It  was  played  in  England  in  the 
provinces,  but  not  in  London,  apparent 
ly  ;  to  what  sort  of  music  and  how  well 
sung,  no  word  has  reached  this  side. 
But  honest  money  was  paid  for  it.  Fur 
ther  still,  a  well-known  actress  desired 
that  Bobbo  be  turned  into  a  drama  for  her. 
Wharton  wrote  it  into  a  play,  according 
ly,  and  perchance  in  this  third  shape 
the  American  stage  may  yet  witness  his 
graceful  and  dainty  piece  of  fancy. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

At  all  events,  here  it  is,  preserved  in 
this  small  volume  with  The  Last  Sonnet 
of  Prinzivalle  di  Cembino.  These  two 
fabliaux,  in  which  the  author's  fantastic 
gift  declares  itself  outright  and  moves 
outright  in  costume,  are  his  last  works 
and  his  best.  The  rest  gathered  in  these 
pages  does  not  pretend  to  be  so  com 
pletely  wrought ;  but,  verse  or  prose,  it 
is  selected  to  show  the  peculiar  vein  of 
talent  that  was  Wharton's  own,  and  to 
the  direct  expression  of  which  he  came 
so  slowly  but  so  surely.  When  the  sud 
den  end  overtook  him  he  was  full  of 
plans,  as  has  been  said,  and  the  sky  of 
his  world  was  clearing  from  its  long  day 
of  cloud.  He  is  gone  now  where  clouds 
are  not.  But  those  who  remember  him 
will  like  to  remember  him  at  the  edge 
of  the  cricket -green,  laughing  with  the 
boys  in  the  white  flannels  ;  or,  when  the 
dusk  had  come,  dining  on  the  up-stairs 

xxvi 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WHARTON 

porch,  alone  with  his  book  and  his  claret 
and  his  dreams. 

I  am  loath  to  leave  speaking  of  Thom 
as  Wharton.  What  has  not  been  said 
is  so  much.  But  it  cannot  be  said.  Of 
all  the  friends  I  have  known,  life  brought 
to  him  more  hard  knocks,  and  less  balm 
for  them,  than  any ;  and  he  fought  it 
out  cheerily  and  in  silence,  like  the  loyal 
heart  that  he  was. 

OWEN  W1STER. 

PHILADELPHIA,  1897. 


Other 
I,  Fancies 


"BOBBO" 


IT  was  Ash- Wednesday  morning,  and, 
thanks  to  the  carnival  the  night  before, 
the  labors  of  Monsieur  Anatole  Doblay, 
most  respected  of  the  magistrates  of 
Paris,  seemed  likely  to  be  severe.  True, 
the  prospect  did  not  weigh  upon  the 
mind  of  the  worthy  magistrate,  who 
customarily  busied  himself  only  with 
his  duty,  and  accepted  that  duty  in 
whatever  form  it  was  arrested  and 
brought  before  him,  so  to  speak,  by 
the  gendarmes.  But  the  thought  of  a 
long  and  harassing  session  was  any 
thing  but  refreshing  to  another  func 
tionary  of  the  court  —  the  clerk,  Paul 


AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

Patureau.  Half  asleep  and  nodding 
was  Monsieur  Paul  as  he  sat  and  wait 
ed  for  the  hour  of  opening  court ;  his 
head  ached,  and  the  riotous  melodies 
of  the  carnival  still  rang  in  his  ears. 
He  had  been  out  very  late  himself — 
oh,  very  late !  —  and  this  morning  his 
dearly  despised  official  duties  seemed, 
like  the  vast  court-room,  more  forbid 
ding  and  gloomy  than  ever. 

Now  when  a  young  man  finds  his 
office  gloomy  in  the  morning  and  his 
clerical  duties  irksome,  that  generally 
means  that  he  has  a  soul  above  routine, 
and  dissipation  the  night  before  only 
aggravates  his  unrest.  And  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  Paul  Patureau  deemed  that 
in  being  made  a  clerk  he  had  arrived 
at  the  wrong  address :  like  most  other 
young  Frenchmen,  he  thought  he  had 
been  directed  "  A  la  Gloire."  And  he 
wished  to  be,  instead  of  a  clerk  in  the 
4 


"HE  HAD  BEEN  OUT  VERY  LATE  HIMSELF" 


"BOBBO" 

Correctional  Court,  a  poet,  a  dramatist, 
and  most  particularly  a  writer  of  libret 
tos —  librettos  that  should  make  all 
Paris  laugh  and  sing  and  dance ;  that 
should  go  round  the  world,  like  the 
Grande  Duchesse  or  the  Fille  de  Ma 
dame  Angot;  that  should  bring  him 
fame  and  money  and  the  friendship  of 
the  Muse — and  it  need  not  be  said  that 
as  yet  he  had  not  achieved  his  chef- 
d'oeuvre.  Alas !  the  dramatic  ambition, 
if  it  is  only  to  write  a  play  around  a 
tank,  is  the  most  torturing  of  all  ambi 
tions,  for  while  there  are  theatres  and 
actors  the  appetite  can  never  be  con 
trolled.  As  it  feeds  it  grows  and  grows ; 
it  begins  in  the  gallery  and  descends  by 
degrees  to  the  orchestra  stall ;  some 
times  it  may  even  conquer  the  green 
room  and  the  coulisse ;  but  thus  to  feed 
unsatisfied  is  the  bitterest  vanity  if  the 
ideas  will  not  arrive.  And  that  was  the 
5 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

difficulty  with    Paul  Patureau.      Ideas 
cut  him  dead. 

Except  when  he  was  asleep.  For 
when  he  was  asleep  and  dreaming  the 
most  striking  plots  revealed  themselves 
to  him,  whole  dramas  performed  them 
selves  before  him  as  author  and  sole 
spectator;  only,  when  he  awoke  he 
could  not  remember  a  single  situation. 
It  was  a  new  demonstration  of  Fate's 
unfailing  and  subtle  irony  that  poor 
Paul  Patureau  should  nightly  renew  the 
bitterness  of  his  own  conviction  that  he 
deserved  success,  and  daily  exasperate 
himself  against  his  own  unlucky  mem 
ory  as  being  to  blame  for  his  inability 
to  command  it.  Yes,  when  he  slept  he 
saw  all  kinds  of  plays,  with  characters 
and  motives,  plots  and  stories,  drawn 
from  every  age  and  clime ;  heroes  more 
romantic  than  Ruy  Bias,  more  comic 
than  Figaro ;  theatrical  surprises  more 
6 


" BOBBO  " 

thrilling  than  the  horn  in  Hernani, 
more  clever  than  the  scented  glove  in 
Diplomacy ;  and  as  for  stage  pictures, 
he  had  but  to  close  his  eyes  and  they 
crowded  on  his  sight,  magnificent  in 
their  complex  accuracy  and  perfection. 
Yet  what  good  did  they  do  to  him  ? 
None  at  all.  Now,  at  this  very  mo 
ment,  should  he  yield  to  his  overwhelm 
ing  desire  to  doze  off,  forgetful  of  the 
criminals  and  the  gendarmes  and  the 
stuffy,  evil-smelling  crowd  of  spectators, 
he  would  probably  witness  one  of  these 
very  productions,  to  be  performed  only 
once,  and  then  to  be  lost  forever  — 
which  would  leave  him  no  better  off. 
Still,  if  he  remained  awake,  the  crim 
inals  and  the  gendarmes  and  the  spec 
tators  would  suggest  nothing  to  him, 
and  he  would  in  addition  be  bored,  so 
that  there  was  some  reason  for  going  to 
sleep. 

7 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

"  Indeed,  I  wish  I  could  go  to  sleep," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  he  folded  his 
arms  and  closed  his  eyes.  Almost 
every  Frenchman  looks  as  if  he  had 
artistic  possibilities,  and  with  his  pale 
cheeks,  the  result  of  the  carnival,  and 
thin,  delicate,  closed  eyelids,  the  young 
clerk  was  by  no  means  a  bad  type  of  a 
poet  and  a  dreamer.  "A  pretty  figure 
I  must  be,"  he  said,  drowsily,  to  him 
self,  "  to  assist  at  the  administration  of 
justice  to  unfortunate  carnival -makers 
who  have  been  less  cautious  than  my 
self!"  And  he  began  to  wonder  how 
he  could  best  secure  the  magistrate's 
clemency  for  some  of  those  very  unfort 
unates  in  whom  he  was  particularly 
interested.  Among  the  prisoners  wait 
ing  their  turn  to  appear  before  Mon 
sieur  Doblay  were  certain  masquer- 
aders,  who,  it  was  said  among  the 
ushers,  were  well  -  known  actors  ;  they 

8 


"BOBBO" 

had  been  quarrelling  among  themselves 
at  a  restaurant  after  the  ball,  and  their 
quarrel  had  grown  so  violent  that  the 
whole  party  had  been  taken  into  cus 
tody.  It  may  be  guessed  with  what 
sympathy  Monsieur  Paul  viewed  their 
incarceration.  If  he  could  have  pass 
ed  upon  their  offence,  their  detention 
would  have  been  very  quickly  at  an 
end. 

All  of  a  sudden  there  broke  out  from 
the  adjoining  room,  where  the  prisoners 
were  in  custody,  a  snatch  of  a  chorus : 

"And  every  time  the  princess  sighs, 
Her  tearful  subjects  wipe  their  eyes." 

Paul  started  up,  instinctively  crying 
out  "Silence !"  and  he  heard  the  officers 
calling  for  order ;  but  a  few  voices  still 
continued: 

"  They  sorrow  most  because  her  griefs 

Entail  such  waste  of  handkerchiefs." 

9 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

"  Outrageous  !  What  do  they  mean 
by  such  a  disturbance?"  said  a  stern 
voice  behind  him,  and  Paul  turned  with 
an  almost  guilty  realization  of  the  dig 
nity  of  the  court  and  of  Monsieur  Do- 
blay.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  had  just  lost 
his  own  consciousness  of  official  dignity 
in  the  perception  that  the  words  of  the 
chorus  were  new  to  him,  and  that  dis 
covery  never  fails  to  set  the  nerve  cells 
of  the  amateur  tingling. 

He  explained  the  situation  to  Mon 
sieur  Doblay. 

"  Actors,  indeed  !  They  take  great 
liberties." 

"  They  are  a  most  picturesque  col 
lection,"  said  Paul,  longing  to  find  a 
good  word  to  throw  in  on  their  behalf. 
"  There  is  a  Punchinello,  a  Harlequin,  a 
Pierrot,  a  Pantaloon,  a  Domino  Noir,  a 
Pierrette—" 

"The    classics,   eh?"   growled    Mon- 

10 


THE   MAGISTRATE 


"BOBBO" 

sieur  Doblay.  "  They  wish  to  turn  my 
court-room  into  a  scene  from  Racine  ?" 

"  Monsieur,"  cried  Paul,  suddenly  il 
lumed,  "  I  have  it !  They  must  be 
singing  from  the  new  operetta  at  the 
Folles-Farces ;  it  is  the  one  operetta  I 
have  not  heard ;  but  only  because  I 
had  not  time ;  and  perhaps  this  is  the 
cast." 

"  Have  them  in  at  once,"  said  Mon 
sieur  Doblay,  replying,  it  almost  seem 
ed,  to  Paul's  unspoken  wish.  "  Have 
them  in,  and  we  will  see  how  they  ex 
cuse  themselves  for  their  follies." 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  wait  till  you  see  the 
Pierrette,"  said  Paul.  "  She  is  a  nymph 
—  a  true  nymph!  Oh,  she  is  wonder 
ful!" 

It  is  always  these  old  friends  of  ours 

who  are  getting  into  trouble,  thought 

Paul,  as  the  masqueraders  were  ushered 

into   the  court -room,  dishevelled,  hag- 

ii 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER  FANCIES 

gard,  absurdly  out  of  keeping  with  the 
daylight  in  their  carnival  paint.  The 
Pierrot  and  the  Punchinello  led,  follow 
ed  by  all  the  other  familiar  figures — a 
Pantaloon,  a  Harlequin,  a  Columbine 
(wrapped  in  a  long  fur  cloak),  a  Domino 
Noir,  and  two  young  men  in  dress-coats 
and  false  noses ;  their  costumes  gave 
them  all  that  droll,  half -deprecating 
look  of  conscious  guilt  which  Punchi 
nello  and  Pierrot  wear  before  the  Law. 
And  Paul,  as  he  prepared  to  take  down 
their  names  with  a  stub -pen  on  stiff 
court  paper,  felt  himself  a  figure  in  the 
comedy  which  the  carnival  and  the 
stage  hand  down  unchanged,  eternal — 
the  comedy  which  shows  man  human, 
weak,  but  therefore  lovable. 

And  here  a  singular  incident  hap 
pened.  For  while  this  red  -  and  -  white 
procession  was  being  marshalled  towards 
the  seat  of  justice,  to  the  immense  de- 

12 


"BOBBO" 

light  of  the  habitues  of  the  court-room, 
an  altercation  was  heard  to  arise  next 
door,  in  the  room  devoted  to  the  pris 
oners.  "  I  will  not  accompany  the  rest 
of  the  troupe,"  cried  a  woman's  voice — 
a  young  and  fresh  voice.  "  I  am  the 
prima  donna,  my  good  man,  and  I  insist 
on  my  entree !" 

"You  hear  her?  That  is  Adele," 
murmured  the  Pierrot,  as  he  lounged 
forward,  his  eyes  dropping  with  sleep. 
He  shrugged  his  sloping  shoulders.  It 
was  indeed  Mademoiselle  Adele,  of  the 
Folles-Farces,  as  Paul  all  of  a  sudden 
became  aware ;  and  a  hard  time  the 
gendarme  had  to  bring  her  out  into  the 
court -room,  flushed,  frowning,  muti 
nous,  long  strands  of  her  straight,  glossy 
black  hair  undone  and  falling  over  her 
creamy  cheeks  and  the  white  sleeves  of 
her  Pierrette  dress.  The  tall  rebellious 
androgyn  tossed  back  her  hair  and  put 
13 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

her  hands  on  her  supple  slim  hips,  and 
looked  devastation  at  the  magistrate  ; 
but  he  was  not  nearly  so  much  affected 
as  was  Monsieur  Paul  Patureau  as  he 
took  the  names  down. 

He  thought  it  more  appropriate  to 
set  them  out  as  a  cast,  as  follows : 

PUNCHINELLO MM.  TAVERNIER 

PIERROT BREBANT. 

PANTALOON MUELLER. 

HARLEQUIN GERVAIS. 

COLUMBINE Mmes.  JOLIFROY. 

DOMINO  NOIR GAUDRION. 

PIERRETTE ADELE. 

All  of  the  Theatre  des  Folks- Farces. 
In  addition  to  these,  M.  Rebus  of  the 
Matinee,  and  M.  Obus  of  the  claque. 

Monsieur  Doblay  listened  gravely  to 
the  report  of  the  gendarme.  A  case  of 
disorderly  conduct,  fracas,  and  defiance 
of  the  authorities  at  the  Cafe  des  Bla- 
fards.  Blows  had  been  struck  and  fur- 
14 


"AND  LOOKED  DEVASTATION  AT  THE  MAGISTRATE 


"BOBBO" 

niture  broken.  The  women  of  the  party 
encouraged  the  participants.  The  de 
fendants  Brebant  and  Rebus  had  taken 
no  part  in  the  fracas,  but  on  the  appear 
ance  of  the  authorities  had  interfered  to 
protect  their  companions.  It  had  con 
sequently  been  necessary  to  arrest  the 
whole  party. 

"And  all,"  cried  Mademoiselle  Adele, 
"  because  Tavernier  cannot  act  Bobbo  !" 

"  Silence  !"  cried  the  ushers.  And  ev 
erybody  stood  aghast. 

Monsieur  Doblay  pressed  his  fingers 
together  and  looked  over  his  spectacles, 
not  so  much  severely  as  reflectively,  at 
the  rebellious  Pierrette,  so  full  of  grace 
and  wild  beauty. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  some  explana 
tion  why  so  many  people  of  reputation 
and  intelligence  have  been  engaging  in 
such  a  lamentable  dispute.  Is  it  only 
15 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER  FANCIES 

because  Monsieur  Tavernier  cannot  act 
Bobbo  ?  Pray,  what  is  Bobbo  ?" 

"  An  opera  bouffe,  Monsieur  le  Juge," 
said  the  actress,  proudly  inclining  her 
head,  "  composed  for  the  Folles-Farces 
by  Monsieur,  Brebant  there,  and  the  li 
bretto  is  by  Monsieur  Tavernier  himself. 
And  I  am  the  Princess  Lisa." 

"You  mean  that  you  take  that  part 
in  the  opera?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Juge.  And  Mon 
sieur  Tavernier  has  the  title  role." 

"  Which  he  sustains  with  the  utmost 
art,"  murmured  Brebant. 

Adele  gave  him  a  glance  which  might 
have  withered  him. 

"  Which  he  does  not  sustain  with  art, 
Monsieur  le  Juge — oh,  not  at  all.  For 
though  it  is  an  adorable  little  story,  but 
adorable,  it  does  not  draw  the  public ; 
and  why  ?  Because  Monsieur  Tavernier, 
though  a  comedian  not  a  little  proud  of 
16 


"BOBBO" 

his  own  prowess,  cannot  carry  out  the 
very  part  he  has  imagined  for  himself." 
And  here  her  slender  limbs  began  visibly 
to  chafe  under  the  oppression  of  keep 
ing  still.  Her  voice  rang  higher,  but  al 
ways  sweet.  "And  the  Folles-Farces 
is  a  new  theatre,  Monsieur  le  Juge ; 
not  a  rich  theatre.  It  is  most  impor 
tant  to  us  to  draw  the  public ;  and  we 
do  not  draw  the  public,  monsieur,  be 
cause  Monsieur  Tavernier  cannot  act 
Bobbo.  And  we  shall  all  starve  !"  And 
she  looked  daggers  at  poor  Tavernier, 
who  twisted  his  hands  together — the 
thick,  short  -  fingered  hands  of  a  true 
bouffe  actor — and  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"And  yet,"  said  Monsieur  Doblay, 
gravely,  "  if  there  was  a  quarrel,  made 
moiselle,  there  must  have  been  those 
who  diasagreed  with  you.  Why  did 
the  quarrel  arise?" 

"  Because,"  cried  Mademoiselle  Adele, 
B  17 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

"  I  frankly  counselled  Monsieur  Taver- 
nier  to  leave  the  cast.  As  a  friend." 

"  That  was  the  way  of  it,  Monsieur  le 
Juge,"  said  Brebant,  who  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  languid  cynicism.  "  She 
frankly  counselled  my  colleague,  the 
author  of  the  operetta,  part  owner  of 
the  theatre,  stage-manager,  and  leading 
actor,  to  leave  the  cast.  I  forgot  to 
add  that  it  was  to  him  she  owed  her 
engagement." 

"  And  when  Mademoiselle  Adele  gave 
this  advice  to  Monsieur  Tavernier  there 
was  opposition  ?"  asked  Monsieur  Do- 
blay. 

"  Pronounced,"  said  Brebant. 

"Vociferous,"  said  Rebus.  "  Even 
minatory." 

"  Upon  which  "—Mademoiselle  Adele's 
eyes  were  blazing  indignantly  at  Brebant, 
but  he  persevered  relentlessly — "  upon 
which  Mademoiselle  Adele  treated  her 

18 


"BOBBO" 

colleagues, particularly  Mademoiselle  Jo- 
lifroy,  to  epithets  of  an  injurious  char 
acter." 

"  Pray,  if  I  might  ask—" 

"  I  called  them  pigs  of  gallery-crush 
ers,"  said  Adele,  impetuously  breaking 
in. 

"The  words  were  uttered  in  heat," 
said  Brebant,  dryly. 

"  I  do  not  withdraw  them,"  said 
Adele. 

"  And  it  was  on  this  provocation  that 
the  fracas  arose?"  said  Monsieur  Do- 
blay,  patiently. 

"As  if  the  words  had  been  dyna 
mite,"  said  Rebus. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the 
magistrate,  "  I  am  afraid  that  I  see 
nothing  for  it  but  to  fine  you  all.  I 
regret  that  there  should  be  differences 
among  you  behind  the  scenes,  if  I  may 
19 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

so  express  myself ;  but  the  law  really 
cannot  concern  itself  with  the  origin  of 
these  differences." 

"  I  would  leave  the  cast  willingly," 
said  Tavernier,  whose  heavy  face  look 
ed  so  sad  that  his  Punchinello's  hump 
seemed  to  belong  to  him,  "  but  we  can 
not  afford  another  actor." 

"  Monsieur  le  Juge,"  said  Madame 
Gaudrion,  speaking  with  dignity  from 
the  mysterious  folds  of  her  domino,  "  I 
desire  it  should  go  on  record  as  the 
opinion  of  those  members  of  the  com 
pany  whose  sentiments  are  in  accord 
with  what  has  just  fallen  from  the  lips 
of  Monsieur  Brebant,  that  the  role  of 
Bobbo  is  perfectly  sustained  by  Mon 
sieur  Tavernier,  and  that  if  any  one's 
acting  is  at  fault  it  is  Mademoiselle 
Adele's." 

"  Mazette  !  I  believe  you,"  murmured 
the  little  Jolifroy.  (Understudy.) 

20 


"BOBBO" 

From  Adele's  eyes  shot  forth  a  flame 
of  contempt ;  she  spread  her  small 
brown  hands  wide  to  the  poles.  "  Lis 
ten,  Monsieur  le  Juge,"  she  cried  — 
"listen,  and  you  will  understand  why 
they  all  speak  evil  of  me.  I  am  alone 
against  them  all,  and  last  night  they 
would  have  driven  me  out  of  the  thea 
tre  forever,  except  that  Monsieur  Ger- 
vais,  that  good  young  man  whom  you 
see  there  as  Harlequin,  Monsieur  le 
Juge,  and  Monsieur  Obus,  with  the 
false  nose,  like  chivalrous  and  gallant 
friends,  constituted  themselves  my 
champions — and  the  resistance  they 
encountered  was  such  that  the  gen 
darmes  were  hurled  upon  us.  It  is 
true,  Monsieur  le  Juge — it  is  true  that 
I  act  badly;  that  in  my  great  scene 
where  I  should  laugh  I  want  to  cry — 
and  thus  I  am  so  angry  that  I  cannot 
laugh  at  all  —  and  the  whole  scene  is 

21 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

spoiled,  and  the  whole  play  is  spoiled ; 
and  our  happiness,  and  our  business, 
and  my  career,  all,  all  are  spoiled ! 
But  why?  Because  it  is  Bobbo  who 
should  make  me  want  to  laugh,  and 
every  night  when  I  play  it  is  Bobbo 
who  makes  me  want  to  cry !" 

"  Fudge !"  said  Madame  Gaudrion,  de 
cisively,  and  quite  loud  enough  to  be 
heard. 

"You  say  that,  madame — "  began 
Adele ;  but  Monsieur  Doblay  silenced 
her  with  a  word. 

"  You  are  a  firebrand,  mademoiselle," 
he  said,  and  he  turned  to  Ere"  bant.  "  As 
I  am  still  in  the  dark,  monsieur,  per 
haps  you  will  explain  a  little  further." 

"  Willingly,  Monsieur  le  Juge,"  said 
the  Pierrot.  "  The  fact  is,  Mademoiselle 
Adele  is  convicting  herself  by  her  own 
testimony,  for  Monsieur  Tavernier's  role, 
admirably  conceived,  is  one  of  those 

22 


"BOBBO" 

which  blend  humor  and  pathos,  and  it 
is  the  pathos  which  should  make,  not 
Mademoiselle  Adele,  you  understand, 
but  the  Princess  Lisa  laugh.  And  if 
Mademoiselle  Adele  forgets  that  she  is 
the  Princess  Lisa,  and  herself  feels  the 
pathos  of  the  scene,  she  is  not  an  ac 
tress,  that  is  all." 

"  Ah !"  said  Monsieur  Doblay,  look 
ing  benignly  wise.  "  The  paradox  of 
acting." 

"  Exactly,  Monsieur  le  Juge." 

"But,"  cried  Adele,  in  a  transport, 
"  it  is  Tavernier  who  is  not  acting !" 

"Not  acting!"  cried  Bre"bant,  Gervais, 
and  Mueller  together.  In  fact,  the  whole 
company  turned  to  Adele  with  looks  of 
astonishment. 

"  No,  he  is  not  acting !  Do  you  sup 
pose  that  I,  an  actress,  cannot  tell? 
It  is  real  with  him;  yes,  I  affirm  it, 
Monsieur  le  Juge,  it  is  real  with  him ! 
23 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

and  that  makes  it  real  with  me,  and  I 
cry  instead  of  laughing." 

At  this  remarkable  statement  all  eyes 
were  turned  on  Tavernier.  His  face  was 
doleful  enough,  but  he  only  shrugged 
his  hump,  as  if  to  say,  "  I  do  not  under 
stand,  but  I  will  not  oppose  her." 

Monsieur  Doblay  laid  down  his  pen 
in  despair.  "  The  further  we  go,"  he 
said,  "  the  greater  is  my  perplexity. 
Suppose,  mademoiselle,  I  were  to  ask 
you  to  give  me  a  brief  precis  of  the 
plot,  and  then  perhaps  I  shall  under 
stand.  For  really  it  has  come  to  this, 
that  Monsieur  Tavernier's  acting  is  on 
trial,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  examine 
into  his  case  and  pronounce  one  way  or 
the  other." 

It  seemed  to  Paul  Patureau  as  if  his 
ideas  mysteriously  communicated  them 
selves    to   his   superior,  and,  what   was 
more  remarkable,  controlled  him. 
24 


"BOBBO" 

Adele  stood  forward.  She  made  a 
gesture  of  such  grace  and  eloquence  as 
thrilled  Paul  Patureau  to  the  marrow. 
"  Monsieur  le  Juge,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
overcome  by  the  honor — oh,  but  over 
come  !  You  ask  me  for  the  plot  of  Bob- 
bo,  Monsieur  le  Juge.  Monsieur  Taver- 
nier's  idea  was  charming,  most  charm 
ing;  and  I  should  be  the  first  to  make 
its  eulogiums,  for  he  honored  me  by 
giving  me  the  chief  role — after  his  own. 
I,  do  you  see,  am  the  Princess  Lisa. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  Italy  at  the  time 
they  called  the  Middle  Ages — but  how 
did  they  know  then  they  were  the  Mid 
dle  Ages,  Monsieur  le  Juge  ? — and  I  am 
very  melancholy.  Oh,  I  am  the  most 
melancholy  Princess  that  ever  was 
known  !  They  give  fetes  for  me,  balls, 
tournaments,  cavalcades,  water  parties, 
illuminations — all  to  no  purpose ;  they 
might  as  well  have  paraded  the  funerals 
25 


"BOBBO"AND  OTHER   FANCIES 

of  the  town  before  me.  Then  they 
have  plays  to  amuse  me,  jugglers, 
clowns,  dancing  dogs,  acrobats,  the 
whole  Folies-Bergeres ;  worse  and  worse 
— I  weep  all  day  long,  and  I  swear  that 
nothing  can  cure  me.  So  my  father, 
the  King,  who  is  excellently  played  by 
Monsieur  Mueller,  Monsieur  le  Juge — 
my  father  is  in  agonies ;  for  not  only 
am  I  his  favorite  child,  but  if  I  do  not 
marry,  the  kingdom  must  go  to  his 
brother,  whom  he  despises.  And  when 
they  talk  to  me  of  marriage  I  weep  so 
bitterly  that  even  Madame  Gaudrion, 
my  governess  —  you  understand,  my 
most  aristocratic  governess — gives  me 
up.  So  the  King  has  an  idea.  He  offers 
my  hand  to  any  one  will  make  me  laugh. 
Is  not  that  an  idea  worthy  of  a  father  ? 
But,  nevertheless,  so  stupid  are  men 
that  numbers  of  poor  young  princes 
and  counts  and  barons  come  and  try  to 
26 


"BOBBO" 

win  a  smile  from  me,  and  they  all  fail, 
and  their  heads  are  taken  off  by  the 
headsman  —  Monsieur  Gervais.  Such 
things  happen,  you  know,  in  opera 
bouffe — in  the  Middle  Ages.  And  of 
course,  as  these  repeated  executions 
happen,  I  go  into  convulsions  of  grief, 
and  grow  more  and  more  melancholy." 

"  Because  none  of  the  young  men 
succeeds  ?"  asked  Monsieur  Doblay,  with 
a  smile. 

"  Possibly,"  said  Mademoiselle  Adele. 
"  But  of  course,"  she  added,  with  a  sud 
den  and  dazzling  smile  of  her  own — "  of 
course  I  do  not  confess  that  to  myself, 
so  there  my  poor  father  is  at  the  end 
of  his  resources ;  and  even  my  sister,  the 
Princess  Beatrice  (played  by  Mademoi 
selle  Jolifroy),  confesses  she  does  not 
know  what  is  to  be  done.  And  as  a 
last  resource  my  father  thinks  once 
more  of  Bobbo.  Bobbo,  Monsieur  le 
27 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER  FANCIES 

Juge,  is  the  most  celebrated  jester  in 
the  world — irresistible,  enchanting,  the 
very  soul  of  drollery  and  humor.  It  is 
not  only  that  his  wit  is  so  quick  and 
keen,  but  his  features  are  the  perfect 
epitome  of  comedy.  You  die  of  laugh 
ing  just  to  look  at  him  ;  it  is  impossible 
to  remain  grave  in  his  presence.  My 
father  would  have  brought  him  before 
me  long  ago  but  for  one  unfortunate 
circumstance  —  Bobbo  is  attached  to 
the  court  of  our  young  and  hot-headed 
neighbor  the  Prince  Eugenius.  Now 
some  time  ago,  before  all  these  experi 
ments  that  ended  so  sadly  on  the  heads 
man's  block,  the  Prince  personally  asked 
for  my  hand,  and,  as  I  declined  to  hear 
of  marriage,  it  was  refused  him.  So  he 
vowed  that  if  my  melancholy  were  not 
removed  by  the  announcement  of  his 
suit  I  might  remain  in  my  present  state 
of  depression  till  the  end  of  my  days  be- 
28 


"BOBBO" 

fore  he  would  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  it. 
Accordingly  my  father  goes  to  war  with 
him,  captures  both  him  and  Bobbo,  and 
brings  the  captives  -back  to  court.  For 
he  is  a  terrible  man,  my  father,  as  the 
Prince,  who  is  Monsieur  Brebant,  finds 
out." 

"  I  begin  to  see  the  plot,"  said  Mon 
sieur  Doblay,  deeply  interested.  Court 
officers  and  spectators  too  all  hung 
upon  her  words. 

"  Is  it  not  too  natural?"  cried  Adele, 
her  eyes  sparkling.  "  What  stupid  be 
ings  fathers  are,  Monsieur  le  Juge ! 
Why  should  the  King  suppose  that  I, 
who  have  succeeded  in  my  obstinacy — 
yes,  I  admit  that  it  is  obstinacy — the 
idea  of  weeping  one's  eyes  out  like  that 
for  any  other  reason  ! — that  I,  who  have 
persisted  in  torturing  my  lachrymal 
glands  while  any  number  of  nice  young 
men  were  trying  to  entertain  me,  should 
29 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

all  of  a  sudden  face  about,  dry  my  eyes, 
and  laugh  like  a  cook  at  the  antics  of  a 
professional  clown?  Much  he  knows 
about  a  woman !  Actually,  when  he 
brings  Bobbo  before  me,  he  is  smiling, 
for  the  first  time  in  years.  Poor  man,  he 
is  doomed  to  disappointment !  Perhaps 
Bobbo  is  not  over -confident,  for  he 
knows  what  will  happen  to  him  if  he 
fails ;  but  no  matter  how  he  exerts  him 
self —  and  in  two  minutes  he  has  the 
rest  of  the  court  rolling  on  their  sides 
on  the  floor — Monsieur  le  Juge,  I  pay 
absolutely  no  attention  to  him.  He 
says  the  wittiest,  most  excruciating 
things ;  I  am  deaf.  He  gambols  and 
capers  so  as  to  make  you  ill  with  laugh 
ing;  I  scarcely  lift  my  eyebrows.  He 
even  makes  sport  of  his  master,  the 
Prince,  for  suffering  himself  to  be  capt 
ured;  I  turn  away  indifferent.  And 
then  what  happens  is  that  he  loses  his 
30 


"BOBBO" 

courage,  he  falters,  he  stammers,  he 
wrings  his  hands,  and  finally  falls  on 
his  knees  and  begs  pathetically  to  be 
spared.  Consequently  my  father  or 
ders  him  to  be  beheaded  at  once." 

"  He  was  wrong,"  said  Monsieur  Do- 
blay,  judicially. 

"  Very  wrong,  Monsieur  le  Juge ; 
but,  after  all,  see  how  fortunately  it 
turned  out !  For,  on  hearing  his  sen 
tence,  Bobbo,  in  despair,  turns  to  me 
and  sings  a  song  begging  me  to  inter 
cede  for  him  ;  he  joins  his  wrinkled  old 
hands  together,  and  the  tears  run  from 
his  poor  old  face,  and  his  nose  is  red, 
and  his  eyes  are  bleared,  and  his  voice 
cracks  and  creaks,  and  altogether  he 
looks  so  absurd  and  ridiculous,  and  he 
is  such  a  refreshing,  delightful,  irresisti 
ble  contrast  to  the  terrified  and  unnatu 
ral  gayety  which  every  one  about  me 
has  been  forced  to  exhibit,  that  I  burst 
31 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER  FANCIES 

out  into  a  good  hearty  fit  of  laughter, 
the  first  in  years.  Bobbo  has  saved 
me!" 

Brava!  There  followed  general  ap 
plause,  which  was  at  once  suppressed, 
but  which  did  not  seem  to  annoy  Mon 
sieur  Doblay  very  greatly.  He  smiled 
with  satisfaction  at  the  escape  of  Bob- 
bo,  and  by  the  nodding  of  his  head 
appeared  to  congratulate  the  Princess 
on  the  breaking  of  the  spell  that  af 
flicted  her.  As  for  Paul,  his  heart  sank. 
"  There !"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  do  you 
wonder  that  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  others 
to  write  libretti,  and  not  to  mine  ?  Ef 
fectively  !  They  have  ideas,  while  I — " 

"  And  so  you  marry  the  Prince  ?"  said 
Monsieur  Doblay,  approvingly. 

"Oh,  not  yet!"  cried  Adele,  radiant 
with  her  success.  "  Of  course  finally  I 
do ;  but  if  it  is  ended  now  it  would  be 
flat  indeed." 

32 


"BOBBO" 

Paul's  heart  sank  again ;  he  had  sup 
posed  this  was  the  finale,  and  behold 
he  did  not  know  the  elements  of  con 
struction  ! 

"What  happens  next  is  that  I  be 
come  serious  once  more,  and  swear  that 
as  my  father  offered  to  marry  me  to 
whomsoever  should  make  me  laugh,  and 
as  Bobbo  has  been  the  one  to  succeed, 
I  will  marry  Bobbo.  This,  of  course,  is 
meant  to  punish  the  Prince  for  his 
pride ;  yet,  after  all,  I  have  a — a  little 
feeling  for  Bobbo.  But  you  may 
guess,"  cried  Adele,  with  a  heightened 
color,  "  how  this  resolve  affects  my 
father  and  the  court,  and  it  is  only  a 
very  little  while  before  they  are  all  in 
tears  at  my  feet,  begging  me  to  re 
consider  my  decision.  And  as  they 
are  now  the  melancholy  ones,  I  am 
well  amused,  I  promise  you.  '  If  you 
all  snivelled  till  doomsday,'  I  say  to 
c  33 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

them,  'you  couldn't  make  me  break 
faith  with  my  dear  Bobbo.'  Poor  Bob- 
bo,  you  know !  ready  to  put  his  head  in 
a  meal-bag  and  pull  the  strings.  Well, 
at  last  the  situation  is  resolved — but 
you  must  ask  Madame  Gaudrion  how." 

"How,  Madame  Gaudrion?" 

"  Oh,  very  simply,"  replied  that  lady, 
in  her  measured  tones.  "  I  am  the 
governess — very  aristocratic,  as  Made 
moiselle  Adele  says — and  I  have  been 
talking  a  great  deal  of  my  family  pre 
tensions,  and  setting  my  cap  at  the 
King;  and  it  turns  out  that  Bobbo 
is  my  husband." 

Whereat  there  was  a  laugh. 

"And  everybody  is  made  happy,  ex 
cept,  probably,  Bobbo,"  commented 
Monsieur  Doblay.  "  Let  me  compli 
ment  you,  Monsieur  Tavernier,  on  the 
grace  and  charm  of  your  little  theme. 
The  springs  of  sorrow  and  happiness 

34 


"BOBBO" 

lie  very  close  together  in  our  hearts, 
and  you  have  perceived  this  and  made 
excellent  use  of  your  penetration  of 
human  nature."  And  he  made  a  polite 
yet  magisterial  bow. 

"  I  beg  you  to  believe,  Monsieur  le 
Juge,  that  I  know  how  to  value  such 
compliments,"  said  Tavernier,  a  little 
flush  of  pleasure  breaking  out  on  his 
anxious  face.  "  But  the  story  has  gain 
ed  greatly  from  Mademoiselle  Adele's 
manner  of  recital." 

"  Doubtless  she  will  answer  that  she 
has  gained  her  inspiration  from  the 
story,"  said  the  courteous  magistrate. 
"But  come  now,  Monsieur  Tavernier, 
here  we  are  on  the  threshold  of  the 
mystery ;  let  us  examine  it  to  the  bot 
tom.  You  are  charged  by  this  young 
lady  with  singing  your  ballad  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  prevent  her  from  listening 
properly  in  the  character  of  the  Princess 

35 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

Lisa.  Now  here  I  am  about  to  throw 
out  a  suggestion  which  may  assist  us. 
Perhaps  the  difficulty  lies  in  the  ballad 
itself,  and  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  will 
repeat  it,  Monsieur  Tavernier.  Or,  better 
still,  if  any  one  here  has  a  libretto — " 

Obus  stepped  forward,  solemn -faced 
leader  of  the  claque.  He  drew  a  marked 
libretto  from  the  pocket  of  his  paletot. 

"  You  will  pardon  my  critical  remarks 
on  the  margin,  Monsieur  le  Juge,"  he 
observed. 

The  magistrate  found  the  place,  and 
adjusted  his  glasses. 

"'LE   CHANSON    DE    BOBBO 

" '  Oh,  is  it  you,  all  youth  and  grace, 
Who  turn  an  unrelenting  face, 

And  cruel  send 

Me  to  my  death,  so  bent  and  worn, 
So  pitiable  and  forlorn, 
So  old  a  friend? 
36 


" BOBBO " 

"'Think!  in  the  nursery,  long  ago, 
A  form  like  mine  you  used  to  know, 

With  curving  back, 

With  painted  cheeks,  and  staring  eyes. 
Look  at  me  !  don't  you  recognize 

Your  Jumping  Jack? 

" '  You  only  had  to  pull  a  string 

And  he  his  arms  and  legs  would  fling 

A  dozen  ways ; 

And  then  you'd  laugh — ah,  yes,  indeed ! 
Twas  easy  for  me  to  succeed 

In  those  old  days. 

" '  You  clasped  me  to  your  baby  breast, 
And  cried,  "  Dear  Jack !"   and  soothed 
to  rest 

My  clumsy  head ; 

And  when  they  asked  you  which  of  all 
Your  toys  the  prettiest  you'd  call — 
"  My  Jack  !"  you  said. 

" '  Yes,  let  my  poor  absurd  grimace, 
My  crooked  back  and  wizened  face, 
My  pardon  make. 

37 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

O  child,  your  childhood  bring  to  mind, 
And  be  to  Punchinello  kind, 
For  pity's  sake!'" 

While  Monsieur  Doblay  read  this 
aloud,  slowly,  and  with  the  reserve  of  a 
man  who  does  not  commit  himself  to 
the  support  of  his  author,  there  was  a 
deep  silence  in  the  court-room.  Then 
Monsieur  Doblay  raised  his  head,  and 
it  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  he  was 
disappointed.  "  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  I 
do  not  find  these  verses  in  themselves 
so  affecting  as  to  justify  Mademoiselle 
Adele's  representations." 

There  was  a  little  nervous  profes 
sional  stir  among  the  actors,  but  before 
any  one  else  could  speak  in  behalf  of 
Tavernier's  song,  Adele  was  boldly 
making  her  own  special  defence.  "  Mon 
Dieu,  Monsieur  le  Juge,"  she  cried, 
"  they  are  not  meant  to  be  read  like 
38 


" BOBBO  " 

verses  in  a  book,  you  know — they  are 
written  for  music  and  the  stage  effect. 
Ah,  monsieur,  if  you  will  ask  Monsieur 
Tavernier  to  recite  them  to  you,  you 
will  see !  Yes,  Monsieur  Tavernier,  if 
you  really  desire  to  clear  yourself,  re 
peat  them  to  the  magistrate — and  let 
him  judge." 

"You  see,  Monsieur  le  Juge,  what  she 
exacts,"  was  all  Tavernier  could  say. 

"After  all,"  said  Monsieur  Doblay, 
"she  is  correct."  I  am  misconstruing 
your  verses,  Monsieur  Tavernier,  and  I 
see  that  my  doubt  disposes  of  itself.  If 
the  lines  are  written  solely  for  the  actor, 
there  is  nothing  intrinsically  pathetic 
in  them — there  can  be  nothing."  And 
Monsieur  Doblay  smiled  reassuringly. 
"And  now  let  me  hear  you  repeat 
them.  Permit  me  to  say  that  I  antici 
pate  a  great  artistic  gratification." 

Tavernier  looked  over  at  Adele,  and 

39 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

murmured  something  no  one  could 
hear.  She,  her  face  flushed,  seemed 
ready  to  spring  upon  him,  take  him  by 
the  shoulders,  and  shake  him  into  ac 
tion,  so  eager  was  she  to  be  proved  in 
the  right. 

As  if  fascinated,  he  kept  his  troubled 
eyes  fixed  upon  her,  and  began,  in  a 
low  voice : 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  all  youth  and  grace — " 

And  as  he  spoke  he  betrayed  all. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  import 
of  his  tone.  The  man  had  a  voice  that 
should  have  made  his  fortune.  Reso 
nant,  strong,  full  of  feeling,  and  yet 
dominated  by  a  strange  and  overpower 
ing  timbre,  a  curious  vibration,  which, 
though  hard  and  masculine,  was  inex 
plicably  attractive,  and  even  affecting — 
a  perfect  stage  voice,  intended  by  nat 
ure  for  comedy  and  bouffe — it  aroused 
40 


" BOBBO " 

not  only  instant  carnal  delight,  but  also 
the  obscure  yearning  that  accompanies 
the  highest  artistic  sympathy.  But 
now  it  was  quivering  with  the  deepest 
pathos.  To  hear  him  struck  to  the 
heart.  Tears  sprang  unbidden  to  the 
eyes.  It  was  an  appeal,  all  conceal 
ment  thrown  aside,  to  the  beautiful 
young  girl  who  stood  before  him.  It 
told  the  whole  story  of  their  relations, 
of  his  dumb  despairing  love  and  her 
girlish  obtuseness,  perversity,  and  self- 
love.  The  words  fell  slowly  and  like 
sobs.  They  conveyed  the  yearning  of 
a  life. 

The  surprise  of  his  emotion  deeply 
disturbed  his  hearers.  Brabant,  in  par 
ticular,  was  visibly  startled  out  of  his 
languor,  and  launched  uneasy  glances 
at  Adele.  She  alone  appeared  to  see 
in  this  sudden  confession  merely  the 
confirmation  of  her  charge.  Her  eyes 
41 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

sparkled  with  triumph  ;  her  foot  patted 
the  ground ;  she  could  hardly  wait  until 
Tavernier  had  finished.  She  did  not 
give  Monsieur  Doblay  time  to  speak. 

"You  see,"  she  cried — "you  see,  all 
of  you,  that  I  have  told  you  nothing 
but  the  truth — and  yet  you  would  not 
believe  me !  He  sings  it  himself — and 
not  to  the  Princess  Lisa,  but  to  me. 
He  does  not  know  how  to  sing  it. 
Hold  !  I  will  show  you  how."  And  be 
fore  any  one  could  stop  her,  she  sud 
denly  pushed  away  Mueller  and  Obus, 
clearing  a  little  space  for  a  stage,  as  it 
were,  and  dropped  her  tall,  supple  form 
into  a  hunchback's  crouching  pose  and 
began  to  sing. 

It  was  a  most  amazing  feat  of  mim 
icry.  Her  head  sank  and  rolled  on  her 
shoulders,  her  arms  hung  long  and  loose 
by  her  sides,  her  back  was  crooked — 
yet  all  these  things  were  shown  by  the 
42 


" BOBBO " 

lightest,  swiftest  indications,  like  the 
heart-breaking  falsetto  in  her  rich, 
splendid  voice,  which,  with  her  fright 
ened  eye  and  trembling  lip,  showed  the 
poor  Punchinello  at  his  wit's  end  for 
refuge.  Sing  it  well?  Not  the  greatest 
comedian  that  ever  lived,  it  seemed, 
could  have  sung  it  better — with  all  its 
whimpering,  its  ridiculous,  terrified  gri 
maces,  its  shaking  fingers  weakly  claw 
ing  the  air,  its  tottering  knees  and  crack 
ed  comic  voice,  its  absurd  senile  smiles 
broken  by  swift  spasms  of  terror  as  the 
singer  alternated  between  hope  and  de 
spair.  Adele  subdued  it  all  to  her  pur 
pose,  with  the  true  bouffe  touch  so  per 
fectly  bestowed  that  the  very  pathos  of 
it  seemed  a  thing  to  laugh  at,  because 
it  so  surely  promised  that  happiness 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  picture. 
And,  indeed,  as  verse  succeeded  verse, 
smiles  were  running  over  all  their  lips, 
43 


"BOBBO"   AND   OTHER    FANCIES 

as  they  stood  breathlessly  listening, 
ready  when  she  ended  to  break  out 
into  laughter  and  applause.  When  all 
at  once,  just  as  she  was  nearing  the 
end,  perhaps  overcome  by  some  sudden 
emotion,  perhaps  tired  by  the  night  of 
confinement  and  the  strain  of  the  police 
examination,  perhaps  at  the  end  of  her 
artist's  tether,  since  extreme  were  the 
demands  the  song  made  upon  her  thus 
to  counterfeit  a  buffo  at  the  height  of 
his  art — for  whatever  reason,  she  falter 
ed,  gasped,  and,  tottering  against  Muel 
ler,  who  caught  her  around  the  waist 
and  supported  her,  burst  into  tears. 

Then,  heartlessly  enough,  but  with 
full  professional  enjoyment  of  her  break 
down,  the  actors  raised  a  peal  of  laugh 
ter,  in  which  all  joined — except  Taver- 
nier.  He  stood  apart,  forgotten,  watch 
ing  her  with  his  burning  eyes.  But  the 
little  Jolifroy  was  especially  merry,  and 
44 


" BOBBO " 

clapped  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of 
mirth. 

Adele  leaped  up,  furious,  angry  gleams 
darting  from  her  eyes.  "  What  do  you 
mean  by  laughing  at  me  ?"  she  cried. 
"You  are  all  beggars,  wretches,  vile 
travesties  of  actors,  whom  the  public 
will  cover  with  shame!"  That  her  tu 
mult  of  wrath  must  have  physical  re 
lief  was  obvious.  It  was  the  little  Joli- 
froy  who  suffered.  Adele's  glance  fell 
instinctively  on  her  understudy's  snig 
gering  face,  and  she  smacked  it. 

A  cry  of  horror  rose  —  gendarmes 
sprang  at  the  offender.  Contempt  of 
court,  lese-majeste — what  had  not  Adele 
committed?  She  herself,  at  the  reali 
zation  of  her  offence,  paled  and  stood 
trembling  in  the  grasp  of  the  military 
police  before  the  magistrate. 

The  only  reason  why  Tavernier  was 
not  scuffling  with  those  same  gendarmes 

45 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

was  that  Brebant  and  Rebus,  by  a  com 
mon  impulse,  threw  their  arms  about 
him  and  restrained  him. 

Monsieur  Doblay  seemed  for  a  mo 
ment  lost  in  consternation  at  the  iniq 
uity  of  the  deed  which  his  own  lenity 
had  encouraged;  then  he  roused'  him 
self,  and  addressed  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  sternly,  "in 
sensible  of  the  kindness  with  which  you 
have  been  treated  here,  you  have  per 
mitted  yourself  to  commit  an  outrage 
upon  the  dignity  of  this  court  which 
merits  the  severest  retribution.  And, 
what  is  more,  you  have  shown  yourself 
intolerant,  unreasonable,  unjust  to  a 
brother  artist,  who,  after  all,  can  only 
do  his  best,  as  his  talent  permits,  and  to 
whom  it  would  appear  you  are  bound 
in  very  gratitude  to  defer.  Art  is  not 
life,  mademoiselle ;  it  is  but  a  representa- 
46 


"BOBBO" 

tion  of  life,  and  all  the  more,  therefore, 
perfection  in  it  cannot  be  demanded  or 
hoped  for.  It  rests  with  all  artists  to 
give  the  public  their  best ;  but  having 
done  so,  they  must  be  satisfied.  And 
since  this  seems  impossible  to  you, 
since  your  ungovernable  temper  makes 
you  a  firebrand  among  your  colleagues, 
the  punishment  that  I  must  now  im 
pose  upon  you  should  be  responsive  to 
this  fault,  that  justice  may  prove  reme 
dial.  I  condemn  you  to  prison,  Made 
moiselle  Adele,  for  forty  days  —  and 
suspend  the  sentence  on  condition  that 
you  pass  the  whole  of  the  ensuing  Lent 
in  retirement,  in  good  works  and  medi 
tation,  without  appearing  once  at  the 
theatre.  And  that  will  teach  you,  per 
haps,  to  control  yourself." 

"  What,  Monsieur  le  Juge — leave  the 
stage?" 

Then  might  you  have   seen    Adele, 

47 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

breaking  from  the  gendarmes,  kneel,  act 
ually  kneel  like  a  guilty  sinner,  before 
the  tribune,  imploring  mercy.  To  be 
condemned  for  forty  days  to  leave  the 
theatre — to  leave  a  successful  play,  to 
see  which  the  house  was  crowded  every 
evening — she  would  be  forgotten  by  the 
public,  by  her  friends — her  understudy 
would  supplant  her  —  and  the  theatre 
was  her  life,  her  very  being !  She 
would  die  without  it ;  to  do  penance 
would  kill  her ! 

Would  not  Monsieur  le  Juge  fine  her 
— she  could  afford  to  pay  a  fine — oh,  a 
heavy  fine  ! — and  let  her  go  ? 

And  it  did  occur  to  Monsieur  Doblay 
that  his  scheme  of  poetic  justice  did  not 
consider  the  management  of  the  Folles- 
Farces  ;  and  he  said,  "After  all,  I  ought 
not  to  visit  the  penalty  of  your  misbe 
havior  on  the  theatre,  and  therefore  a 
fine—" 

48 


"BOBBO" 

To  every  one's  surprise,  here  Taver- 
nier  interrupted.  "  No,  Monsieur  le 
Juge,"  he  cried,  quite  beside  himself 
with  suffering,  "  I  would  rather  let  her 
go!" 

"Let  me  go?"  exclaimed  Adele,  her 
face  suddenly  growing  white. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  turning  on  her, 
his  breast  heaving ;  "  we  cannot  go  on 
like  this  —  one  of  us  must  leave  the 
Folles-Farces — there  is  a  limit  to  what 
a  man's  heart  can  bear ;  and  since  you 
mean  to  break  mine,  since  there  is  no 
limit  to  your  contempt,  your  disdain, 
and  your  ill  usage,  I  must  protect  my 
self — I  must  snap  the  chain  in  two. 
God  knows  I  would  give  you  all — the 
theatre,  my  heart,  my  life,  if  you  would 
but  accept  them — God  knows  I  have 
offered  you  both  my  heart  and  my  life, 
again  and  again,  and  you  would  not 
take  them—" 

D  49 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER    FANCIES 

"  You  have  offered  me  your  heart  ?" 
said  Adele,  with  a  strange  sound  in  her 
voice. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  in  exaltation  ;  "  every 
night,  in  the  song  I  sing  to  you,  the 
song  I  wrote  to  you,  the  song  I  cannot 
sing  because  every  word,  every  note, 
breaks  my  heart  when  you  will  not 
look  at  me  or  care  for  me.  But  why 
should  you?  —  you,  so  beautiful,  so 
young — " 

He  could  not  go  on. 

Adele  drew  a  long,  shuddering  breath  ; 
her  face  was  white.  She  choked  as  she 
tried  to  speak.  Finally  she  said,  "  I  did 
not  know  —  I  did  not  know  I  was  so 
much  to  you."  And  after  a  pause  she 
added,  "  I  have  promised  to  marry  Br£- 
bant." 

Tavernier  gave  a  cry,  and  then  cov 
ered  his  ghastly  face  with  his  hands. 
Brebant  looked  at  them  both  from 
50 


PAUL   PATUREAU    RETURNED   TO    HIS   SENSES" 


"BOBBO" 

under  the  dark,  delicate  lines  of  his 
eyebrows,  pulled  at  his  mustache,  and 
said,  "  Fichtre !" 

Nobody  seemed  able  to  speak,  and 
there  was  a  long  silence. 

All  at  once  Adele  started,  and  turned 
and  looked  at  Brebant.  He  met  her 
look  steadily,  but  without  budging  a 
hair's-breadth  from  his  attitude  of  pro 
found,  concentrated  attention.  Then 
the  blood  surged  back  to  her  face  again, 
and  she  cried,  in  excited  but  clear  and 
resolute  tones,  "  But  as  Brabant  does 
not  love  me — I  release  him." 

When  we  wake  from  a  dream  the  eye 
still  sees  distinct  before  it  the  mental 
image  which  was  the  last  impressed  on 
the  retina  of  our  imagination,  and  which 
somehow  seems  the  one  which  woke  us 
out  of  sleep.  And  as  Paul  Patureau  re 
turned  to  his  senses  and  found  the  real 
51 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

court-room  again  before  him,  and  heard 
the  tread  of  the  real  Monsieur  Doblay 
echoing  behind  him  on  the  tribune, 
there  hung  for  an  instant  clearly  out 
lined  in  his  vision  the  miniature  actors 
of  the  supposititious  theatre  created  by 
his  drowsy  fancy  as  they  disposed  them 
selves  before  their  flight — Tavernier 
catching  Adele  to  his  breast ;  Mueller 
and  Gervais  and  Rebus  and  Jolifroy 
and  all  the  rest  grouped  about  in  vari 
ous  attitudes  of  astonishment  and  de 
light,  or  perhaps  envy ;  Brebant  slow 
ly  vouchsafing  the  magistrate  a  glance 
whose  faint  suggestion  of  relief  was  to 
Paul  Patureau  the  subtlest  touch  of  it 
all.  How  willing  Paul  would  have  been 
to  delay  them  just  a  moment  longer, 
to  hear  what  Tavernier  was  saying  to 
Adele,  or  himself  to  have  saluted  the 
bride !  But  he  saw  them  go  without  a 
pang;  for  this  once  he  recollected  the 
52 


"BOBBO" 

plot  of  his  operetta.     He  had  at  last 
dreamed  successfully. 

And  now  he  had  nothing  left  to  do 
but  write  his  libretto,  get  it  accepted 
by  some  popular  composer,  and  pro 
duced.  Lucky  Paul  Patureau ! 


THE   LAST  SONNET   OF 
PRINZIVALLE   DI   CEMBINO 


THE  LAST  SONNET  OF  PRINZI- 
VALLE  DI  CEMBINO 


IT  was  in  the  year  of  the  great  Pazzi 
plot  that  Prinzivalle  di  Cembino,  whom 
his  fellow-Florentines  called  "the  bird- 
lover,"  wrote  his  last  sonnet  to  Ma 
donna  Ghita,  the  wife  of  Ugo  degli 
Carrecci;  and  before  the  Pazzi  rose 
against  the  Medici  no  man  expected 
those  sonnets  to  come  to  an  end  less 
than  did  the  ardent  soldier,  lover,  and 
poet  who  wrote  them.  Whether,  if 
the  Pazzi  had  not  risen,  the  sonnets 
would  never  have  been  interrupted 
is,  of  course,  impossible  to  say.  But 
they  did  rise;  and  immediately  there- 
57 


"BOBBCTAND   OTHER   FANCIES 

after,  if  not,  indeed,  in  direct  conse 
quence  thereof,  Prinzivalle  became  the 
hero  of  one  of  the  most  characteris 
tic  episodes  in  all  the  annals  of  love 
— the  episode  of  the  little  fig -peck 
ers. 

There  was  once  a  great  connoisseur 
who  declared  that  the  classic  examples 
of  wit  were  those  which  could  only  be 
said  in  a  certain  century,  of  a  certain 
thing,  to  a  certain  man.  Obviously  this 
is  only  a  partial  application  of  a  prin 
ciple,  and  it  may  be  easily  maintained 
that  these  may  be — I  do  not  say  they 
are  —  the  touchstones  of  all  classic  epi 
sodes.  But  whether  they  are  or  not, 
I  have  always  deemed  the  episode  of 
the  little  fig-peckers  worthy  to  be  con 
sidered  a  classic,  because  it  could  only 
have  happened  about  the  little  fig- 
peckers  to  Prinzivalle  di  Cembino  in 
the  Quattrocento. 

58 


LAST   SONNET   OF   PRINZIVALLE 

And    first    the    sonnet.      Prinzivalle 
called  it— 

"ON   THE   SUMMIT 

"  When  over  us  the  awful  peaks  arose 

I  faltered,  and  upon  me  fell  Love's  eyes, 
Divine  and  calm,  and  my  soul's  cowardice 

Then  did  his  deep  sad  look  to  me  disclose. 

He  spoke  not,  nor  reminded  me  of  those 
Vows  wherewith  I  had  made  my  lady  glad, 
To  follow  him,  in  pilgrim  habit  clad, 

But  onward  went  alone  among  the  snows. 

And  bound  there  in  the  spell  laid  by  my  sin, 

Long  straining  after  him  my  tearful  sight, 
I  watched  him  pass  the  glacier's  distant 
crown 

And  slowly  to  the  very  summit  win. 

But  as  he  stood  upon  the  silent  height 
I  saw  him  at  his  bleeding  feet  look  down." 

The   story   of  the  growth  o'f  Prinzi- 

valle's    love    for   his   mistress  is   easily 

told :  it  was  in  its  essence  that  of  any 

Italian    of  the   time    for   the    lady    on 

59 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER    FANCIES 

whom  fell  the  desire  of  heart  and  soul 
at  one  in  a  mystic  ecstasy  over  beauty, 
and  a  miraculous  power  of  expressing 
surely  the  vividest  type  in  which  pas 
sionate  humanity  has  ever  seen  itself 
struggling,  battling,  loving,  and  con 
spiring.  And  yet  among  all  the  lovers 
with  whom  those  mediaeval  centuries 
burn,  none  ever  compared  with  Prinzi- 
valle  for  the  devotion  with  which,  while 
his  passion  lasted — and  it  was  no  fault 
of  his  that  it  ended — he  bound  himself 
to  his  ideal  of  love,  and  lived  in  it  and 
through  it  and  for  its  sake  alone.  He 
was  the  type ;  he  was  the  perfect  lover. 
He  was  the  man  who  was  in  deed,  not 
in  word,  all  adoration,  all  hope,  all  con 
stancy  ;  who  gave  everything,  asked 
nothing,  submitted  always ;  whose  love 
was  as  ready  as  his  submission,  and 
whom  neither  disappointment  nor  pos 
session  could  in  any  manner  change. 
60 


LAST    SONNET    OF    PRINZIVALLE 

After  all  is  said  and  done,  this  last  is 
the  test  infallible.  What  will  not  a 
woman  do  for  a  man  who,  after  six 
long  years,  still  sues  for  what  she  gives 
him? 

True  enough,  Prinzivalle's  mistress 
was  one  of  those  women  who  keep  alive 
the  fable  of  fays  and  witches,  and  for 
whom  modern  science  itself  finds  no 
words  that  are  not  just  as  superstitious. 
Prinzivalle  saw  her  first  at  a  company 
to  which  he  had  accompanied  his  wife, 
Francesca,  in  the  garden  of  Pico  della 
Fernandina,  and  there  they  fell  in  love, 
ardently  and  unresistingly,  at  first  sight. 
Perhaps  the  fact  that  she  was  the  wife 
of  an  enemy  of  the  Medici  heightened 
the  attraction ;  but  that  stimulus,  at 
most  a  minor  impulse,  could  only  have 
been  felt  for  a  moment.  The  effect  on 
Prinzivalle  was  instant  and  complete. 
Before  they  parted  he  was  changed. 

61 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

He  had  been  a  silent  man,  a  dweller 
among  state  polities  and  party  secrets, 
with  no  inner  life  of  his  own ;  she  open 
ed  the  door  of  his  soul  for  him,  and  he 
stood  and  gazed  at  this  new  possession 
as  if  he  had  been  the  first  man  to  re 
ceive  a  soul.  He  understood  what  it 
meant,  and  what  he  might  make  of  it, 
and  therefore  he  determined  to  make 
of  it  an  offering  to  Madonna  Ghita. 

Accordingly  he  began  his  love-making 
directly,  which  was  all  a  man  thought 
of  in  those  days ;  their  morals  were  not 
different  from  ours,  morals  being  the 
same  in  all  ages,  but  their  observance  of 
them  was  quite  different.  And  Prinzi- 
valle  being  already  hostile  to  the  Car- 
recci,  it  was  only  a  matter  of  swords, 
which  he  did  not  fear  at  all.  Indeed, 
if  he  had  a  preference,  it  was  that  Ugo 
should  belie  men's  sneers  and  defend 
his  home.  But  Ugo  did  not.  He  was 
62 


LAST    SONNET    OF    PRINZIVALLE 

a  conspirator,  to  whom  home  and  hon 
or  and  love  were  counters  in  a  gaming 
bank,  high  counters,  only  to  be  played 
when  ill  luck  began  to  spread  its  black 
wings  and  menace,  like  the  devil  that  it 
is,  and  not  till  then.  Why,  he  had  mar 
ried  Ghita  di  Montefeltro  in  order  to 
have  just  such  counters  in  his  bank — 
and  now  throw  them  away  before  his 
time?  Not  Ugo!  When  he  met  Prinzi- 
valle  in  the  world  he  could  easily  look 
at  him  with  that  hollowness  behind  the 
eyes  that  you  see  in  all  gamblers  and 
political  traffickers  :  and  he  was  never  in 
the  way  of  meeting  Prinzivalle  when  his 
wife's  lover  came  riding  to  the  Villa 
Carrecci.  It  was  very  simple  for  Ugo. 

But  it  was  not  simple  for  Prinzivalle. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  to  whom  the 
ethics  of  emotion  are  everything,  and 
when  with  these  temperaments  emo 
tion  does  not  declare  itself  strongly 
63 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

until  manhood,  the  course  and  conduct 
of  love  become  of  a  passionate  impor 
tance  to  which  everything  else  in  life  is 
not  only  subordinate,  but  subject,  slav 
ish  ;  and  that  love  should  be  blurred  by 
the  intrusion  of  the  world's  infamies 
was  as  incomprehensible  to  him  as  it 
was  poignant.  And  probably  if  his  own 
self-control  had  not  been  so  strong  and 
so  practised,  this  very  same  dark,  treach 
erous  complaisance  of  Ugo's  would  have 
chafed  and  wrung  him  so  that  his  pas 
sion  could  not  have  endured.  But  he 
could  control  himself ;  and  he  presently 
began  to  love  Ghita  so  much  that  he 
did. 

He  loved  her  very  much.  He  loved 
her  as  all  women  long  to  be  loved  — 
blindly,  silently,  unquestioningly,  with 
that  way  of  containing  a  wild  tumultu 
ous  strength  for  her  sake,  which  some 
how  seems  to  woman  man's  supreme 
64 


LAST   SONNET    OF    PRINZIVALLE 

demonstration  of  passion.  This  sort  of 
man,  though  he  asks  nothing,  often 
takes  all ;  yet  Prinzivalle  neither  asked 
nor  took  all,  but  waited,  waited  for  ev 
erything  she  gave  him.  They  used  to 
meet  in  a  garden  of  the  Villa  Carrecci, 
which  lies  along  the  river  below  the 
orchards,  and  is  enclosed  on  its  three 
land  sides  by  a  cypress  hedge  with 
clipped  archways,  and  statues  gleaming 
in  among  the  green.  Oh,  they  were  the 
scenes  for  passion,  those  Italian  gar 
dens! —  for  the  infinite  yearning  and 
straining  of  hearts  whose  fibres  were 
struck  and  thrilled  and  racked  by  vibra 
tions  so  exquisite  that  we  strive  for  the 
perception  of  them  now  in  vain:  they 
were  the  distant  land  of  magic  trans 
planted  to  lie  underfoot  in  beauty  that 
dazed,  it  was  so  commanding  and  so 
ethereal,  so  lovely  and  so  quivering 
with  the  pain  of  enchantment.  Even 

E  65 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

to-day  the  heart  is  troubled  among  their 
alleys,  their  fountains,  and  their  cedars — 
troubled  indescribably ;  and  how  much 
more  in  the  day  of  Ghita  and  of  Prinzi- 
valle !  In  his  sonnets  Prinzivalle  came 
back  to  the  garden  again  and  again, 
describing  it  with  that  tense  simplicity 
which  means  so  infinitely  much  more 
than  all  our  raptures  ;  and  no  wonder  he 
dwelt  on  the  garden,  for  here  Madonna 
Ghita  taught  him  to  be  a  poet,  and 
taught  him  what  she  meant  by  love. 

What  did  she  mean  by  it  ?  Answer, 
all  who  have  been  under  the  spell  that 
Prinzivalle  suffered  ;  all  who  have  listen 
ed  to  that  conjuration  and  felt  the  spirit 
disengage  itself  from  earthly  covenants 
and  rise  into  a  rarer,  diviner  ether,  into 
a  place  of  neither  pleasure  nor  pain ;  all 
who  for  one  hour  have  known  a  woman 
who  could  give  substance  to  woman's 
eternal  promise  of  earthly  paradise,  and 

66 


LAST  SONNET   OF   PRINZIVALLE 

make  man  seem  actually  to  inhabit 
therein.  Answer!  and  remember  that 
in  those  days  an  old  belief,  to  whose 
fragments  women  cling  to-day,  could 
still  hold  sway  in  women's  minds — the 
belief  the  troubadours  learned  from 
them  and  taught  them  in  return — the 
belief  that  love  is  an  existence  of  its 
own.  Whence  Madonna  Ghita  derived 
the  strange  other  doctrines  she  mingled 
in  with  this  I  cannot  tell,  nor  does  it 
matter.  Such  mystic  beliefs  do  not 
need  a  source  besides  the  agitation  of 
the  soul  which  life  itself  imparts ;  nor 
do  they  need  a  soil  besides  the  credu 
lous,  aspiring  spirit  that  receives  them. 
Little  by  little,  as  Madonna  Ghita  slow 
ly  let  her  love  pass  into  Prinzivalle's 
keeping,  did  she  expound  to  him  that 
ecstatic  dream  of  perfection  in  love 
which  never  wholly  dies  even  in  the 
most  material  ages ;  and  then,  later  still, 
67 


"BOBBO"AND    OTHER   FANCIES 

added  the  counsels  of  discipline  of  spirit 
which  made  of  him  Heaven  knows  what! 
— an  adept,  we  should  call  him,  maybe, 
in  our  divinely  assorted  categories. 

At  least  he  believed  that  she  inspired 
him,  and  made  him  impervious  to  cold 
and  heat,  oblivious  of  danger,  strong 
of  counsel,  patient  of  every  disappoint 
ment,  almost  a  disembodied  force.  And 
he  delighted  to  ask  difficult  and  hazard 
ous  assignments  of  the  Medici,  which  he 
discharged  secretly  to  their  utter  grati 
tude  and  admiration ;  and  then,  return 
ing  from  his  nunciatures,  the  flush  of 
success  burning  on  his  brow,  he  would 
go  to  Madonna  Ghita,  who  sat  waiting 
for  him,  her  chin  in  her  hand.  And 
when  he  had  told  her  what  he  had  done 
for  her  she  would  lift  the  other  hand, 
which  had  been  hanging  by  her  side  the 
while,  and  stroke  his  cheek ;  and  as  her 
look  was  speech  in  silence,  so  her  touch 
68 


LAST   SONNET   OF  PRINZIVALLE 

was  fire  in  snow.  These  were  traits 
which  might  well  set  a  man  so  sensitive 
tingling  with  transcendental  resolves ; 
and  the  way  she  spoke,  as  if  a  spirit 
were  dictating  to  her,  and  walked  with 
out  her  feet  being  seen  to  move,  and 
looked  long  at  him  until  her  face  grew 
pale  and  seemed  to  fade  away,  and  only 
her  eyes  were  left,  which  shone  like  fires 
of  illimitable  depth  —  it  would  be  no 
wonder  if  these  things  touched  a  yet 
more  primitive  and  superstitious  chord 
in  him.  And  indeed,  as  Prinzivalle 
meditated  upon  her  day  after  day,  pon 
dering  upon  his  love  as  he  rode  out  of 
the  city  with  his  troop,  or  went  guard 
edly  about  his  mysterious  missions,  dis 
coursing  upon  it  under  subtle  coverings 
with  Lorenzo's  court  of  poets  and  rhet 
oricians,  he  began  to  think  she  was  truly 
a  white  spirit.  She  never  seemed  to  err ; 
she  did  not  waver  or  change  ;  her  beauty 

6g 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

never  faded ;  grief,  care,  sickness,  fatigue, 
made  no  impress  upon  her ;  she  might 
be  mortal,  but  she  showed  no  trace  of 
mortality.  Was  not  this  a  eudaemonia  ? 
But  what  may  possibly  have  had 
most  effect  in  convincing  Prinzivalle  of 
Madonna  Ghita's  unearthliness  was  that 
through  all  those  years  of  passion  she 
still  withheld  something  of  her  love,  re 
mained  in  part  inaccessible.  No  matter 
how  he  strove,  no  matter  what  he  ef 
fected  in  her  name,  there  was  still  a 
spiritual  communion  to  be  conquered. 
And  she  withheld  it  in  terms;  telling 
him  she  did  so,  promising  that  this  com 
munion  should  be  his  when  his  lesson 
was  at  last  learned  and  he  had  finally 
accomplished  his  triple  aim  of  love,  loy 
alty,  and  self-relinquishment.  No  doubt 
during  the  period  of  his  long  spiritual 
probation  he  often  expected  the  guer 
don  to  be  his,  and  found  himself  doom- 
70 


LAST   SONNET  OF   PRINZIVALLE 

ed  to  disappointment ;  but  he  endured 
with  patience,  and  perhaps  it  will  be 
thought  not  the  least  proof  of  his  en 
durance  that  he  did  so,  seeing  that  he 
perceived  how  profoundly  Madonna 
Ghita  had  read  him  and  counted  on  his 
obedience. 

Thus  month  succeeded  to  month  and 
year  to  year,  and  the  great  fact  of  their 
love  moved  on  with  time,  all  other  things 
being  either  tributary  to  it  or  non-exist 
ent.  And  Prinzivalle's  devotion  grew 
every  day  more  and  more  implicit ;  he 
went  on  aspiring,  burning,  asking  noth 
ing,  striking  a  still  higher  note  in  his 
sonnets,  reaching  still  higher  and  more 
transcendent  regions  of  spiritual  love, 
and  longing  still  more  ardently  for  his 
promised  reward.  And  when  six  years 
had  thus  been  passed,  the  conspiracy  of 
the  Pazzi  broke  out. 

Such  a  dire  event  as  this,with  the  mem- 
71 


«BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

orable  and  awful  murder  of  Giuliano  de' 
Medici  in  the  cathedral,  and  the  narrow 
escape  of  Lorenzo  from  the  same  dread 
ful  fate,  would  naturally  stir  Prinzi- 
valle's  energies  to  the  utmost.  After 
the  blow  had  been  struck  it  fell  to  his 
share  to  direct  certain  of  the  measures 
of  vengeance,  and  it  coming  to  his 
official  knowledge  (as  any  one  could 
have  guessed)  that  Ugo  degli  Carrecci 
was  one  of  the  conspirators,  he  sent  to 
seize  him.  However,  Ugo  had  fled,  to 
take  refuge,  it  was  thought,  in  Con 
stantinople.  This  Prinzivalle  reported 
to  Lorenzo  among  other  news  of  the 
conspiracy.  On  which  Lorenzo  ordered 
that  Ugo's  estates  should  be  seques 
trated,  and  that  an  intendant  should  be 
placed  over  them ;  but  he  desired  Prin 
zivalle  to  direct  the  intendant,  privately, 
that  the  revenues  should  be  paid  to  Ma 
donna  Ghita,  and  that  she  should  not  be 
72 


LAST   SONNET   OF   PRINZIVALLE 

disturbed  in  her  possession.  And  as  he 
was  now  growing  stronger,  he  bade  Prin- 
zivalle,  with  a  smile,  convey  this  assur 
ance  to  Madonna  Ghita — "  since/'  said 
he,  "  she  was  born  of  a  family  friendly  to 
the  Medici."  Which  was  true  enough, 
for  she  was  sister  to  the  noble  Giano  di 
Montefeltro,  of  Pisa. 

Prinzivalle  accordingly  mounted  and 
rode  by  the  circuitous  route  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  take  to  come  to  the 
river  garden,  because  this  was  the  open 
route,  and  Ugo  could  always  have  seen 
him  had  he  wished  it.  And  it  was  on 
that  memorable  day  that,  after  hearing 
his  news,  Madonna  Ghita  at  last  declar 
ed  herself  convinced  of  his  absolute  self- 
surrender  to  the  highest  ideal  of  love  ; 
and,  satisfied  of  his  worthiness,  told  him 
freely  that  she  was  his,  singly  and  bless 
edly,  to  the  end  of  life. 

She  bade  him  esteem  himself,  not  the 

73 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

most  faithful  of  men,  indeed,  for  that 
might  lead  to  destructive  pride,  but  a 
man  to  whom  patience  and  effort  had 
taught  a  true  constancy.  "  The  last  let 
ter  of  your  name,"  she  said,  "  is  to-day 
finally  graven  on  my  heart,  and  any  one 
who  saw  therein  could  read  it  complete, 
like  an  inscription  on  a  statue,  which 
remains  unchanged  through  many  cen 
turies."  And  as  she  spoke  there  broke 
into  Prinzivalle's  soul  something  like  a 
light,  but  so  violent  that  it  seemed  a 
new  element.  His  chest  labored,  he 
breathed  with  difficulty,  his  lips  part 
ed,  and  a  divine  joy  struggled  silently 
upon  them.  He  fell  on  his  knees  and 
embraced  the  hem  of  her  dress;  and 
Ghita  laid  her  hand  upon  his  head,  and 
he  received,  as  never  before,  a  compre 
hension  of  the  power  of  love.  "You 
have  performed  my  bidding  unquestion- 
ingly,"  she  said,  "  and  I  wish  to  tell  you 
74 


LAST  SONNET   OF   PRINZIVALLE 

this,  that  whatever  you  ask  I  will  in 
turn  perform." 

And  now  for  the  episode  of  the  little 
fig-peckers. 

We  had  better  pause  to  imagine  the 
scene  —  the  garden  silent  in  the  warm, 
tender  May  air,  the  young  leaves  and 
vines  glistening  in  the  sun,  the  cedars 
purple -green  and  tall,  the  statues  half 
hidden  in  the  untrimmed  spring  cypress 
— Madonna  Ghita,  dark-haired  and  dark- 
eyed,  with  her  divine,  inscrutable  look, 
her  arms  that  lay  close  to  her  side  like  a 
bird's  wings,  and  her  slight,  slow,  infi 
nitely  graceful  motions — and  Prinzivalle, 
swarthy,  deep-cloaked,  and  fiery.  It  was 
a  long  time  before  he  so  much  as  spoke, 
so  great  was  the  tranquillity  that  had 
fallen  upon  him  ;  he  only  gazed  into  her 
eyes  as  they  sat  side  by  side  upon  the 
stone  bench  about  the  dial.  At  last,  as 
if  a  girlish  timidity  had  been  renewed 
75 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

in  her  by  the  ardor  of  his  gaze,  she  who 
had  so  long  imposed  her  commands 
upon  him  trembled,  and  her  eyes  fell. 
Oh,  delicious,  unspeakable  moment, 
when  creation  seems  wholly  subject  to 
man !  No  doubt  it  was  requital  to  Prin- 
zivalle  for  all — requital,  and  something 
more.  So  much  more  that  he  deter 
mined  he  would  ask  a  favor  of  her  at 
last  —  the  first  after  all  his  servitude. 
And  as  in  asking  some  favor  he  should 
not  only  requite  her  confidence,  but 
have  the  dear  long-attended  joy  of  a 
pledge  from  her  of  his  own  devising, 
what  should  it  be  ? 

What  first  came  into  his  mind  was 
characteristic  enough  of  him. 

It  was  in  that  particular  spring  the 
custom  for  the  Florentine  ladies  to  wear 
their  dresses  trimmed  about  the  neck 
with  beccaficos'  feathers,  and  to  see 
Madonna  Ghita  sharing  in  this  custom 
76 


LAST   SONNET   OF   PRINZIVALLE 

was,  Heaven  knows,  repellent  to  Prinzi- 
valle.  Not  only  were  the  cruelty  and  the 
wantonness  of  it  unsuited  to  her,  but  it 
was  the  first  note  that  had  ever  jarred 
him  in  their  intercourse.  So  he  spoke, 
glad  of  the  confidence  that  granted  his 
petition  before  it  was  framed. 

"  Madonna  Ghita,"  said  he,  "  it  will 
seem  but  a  slight  thing  that  I  have  to 
ask  you,  and  perhaps  only  a  longing  of 
the  fancy.  Yet  it  is  of  the  heart ;  for 
my  heart  is  always  most  tender  towards 
the  birds,  to  whom  God  permits  what  he 
does  not  permit  to  us,  namely,  to  wear 
wings,  as  the  angels  do.  The  favor  I 
ask  you  is  that  for  my  sake  you  will 
cease  wearing  the  feathers  of  the  little 
beccafico." 

"  The  feathers  of  the  little  beccafico?" 
said  Madonna  Ghita. 

"Yes,"  said  Prinzivalle. 

At  this  she  looked  at  him  as  if  she 

77 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER    FANCIES 

did  not  understand,  and  she  said,  softly 
and  curiously,  "Why  do  you  ask  this, 
Messer  Prinzivalle?" 

Then  Prinzivalle  explained  to  her  how 
the  custom  was  one  unsuited  to  fair  la 
dies,  causing  wanton  slaughter  among 
the  song-birds  still  feeding  their  young, 
and  not  needed  for  imparting  elegance 
or  grace  to  lovely  women. 

"Are  you  sure,"  she  said,  gently — 
"  are  you  sure  that  these  birds  are  slain 
wantonly?  For  this  was  not  my  sup 
position,  Messer  Prinzivalle." 

Grateful  for  the  assurance,  he  cried, 
"  Yet  it  is  true." 

"  May  it  not  rather  be,"  she  return 
ed,  "  that  they  are  killed  for  food  and 
their  feathers  sold,  or  that  they  are 
killed  by  the  farmers  whose  figs  they 
peck?" 

So  then  Prinzivalle  told  Madonna 
Ghita  how  the  case  stood  in  fact,  that 

78 


LAST  SONNET  OF   PRINZIVALLE 

killing  the  birds  was  a  danger  to  the 
figs,  which  would  thus  be  left  a  prey  to 
the  worms  which  were  the  beccaficos' 
food. 

"  For  observe,"  he  said,  "  that  thaJni- 
verse,  with  the  firmament,  being  j/  orm, 
as  it  were,  a  quadrate,  whereif/liil  things 
uphold  and  support  each  other,  there 
can  be  nothing  superfluous  therein. 
And  there  results  a  certain  definite  and 
providential  proportion,  which  when  we 
disturb,  the  harmony  of  the  universe  is 
lost.  Man's  dominion,  therefore,  over 
the  beasts  of  the  field  and  the  birds  of 
the  air,  as  over  the  rest  of  terrestrial 
things,  is  not  given  to  him  that  he  may 
destroy  them,  but  that  he  may  make 
them  perform  their  appointed  functions. 
And  if  he  do  not,  he  will  suffer,  through 
the  disturbance  of  the  natural  harmony. 
Thus,  when  for  the  sake  of  fashion  the 
beccaficos  are  killed,  man  is  punished 

79 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

by    the     destruction     of    his     gardens 
through  worms." 

Madonna  Ghita  was  silent  for  a  while, 
and  then,  looking  on  him  with  sorrowful 
steadfastness,  exclaimed,  "  How  have  I 
been  deceived !" 

It  seemed  to  Prinzivalle  as  though  he 
had  been  struck  a  blow.  And  he  cried 
out  to  her  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Is  this  really  the  request  that  you 
make  of  me,"  she  asked,  "that  I  cease 
wearing  beccaficos'  feathers?" 

"  Surely,"  said  he. 

"  Then  it  is  true,"  she  said,  "  since 
you  affirm  it.  And  I  have  given  my 
love,  not  to  the  cavalier  and  poet,  Messer 
Prinzivalle  di  Cembino,  but  to  a  rustic — 
a  boor — who  cannot  climb  with  me  the 
heights  of  love,  but  remains  on  the  earth, 
intent  on  the  yield  of  his  fig  trees." 

"Virgin    Mary!"    he    cried,    aghast, 
"  what  can  you  mean?" 
80 


LAST   SONNET  OF  PRINZIVALLE 

"  To-day,"  said  Madonna  Ghita,  "  at 
the  very  flowering  of  my  love  after 
these  years  of  your  service,  what,  oh 
Heaven,  must  I  hear  ?  Not  of  me— not 
of  me  has  your  heart  been  glad,  but  of 
the  price  to  be  gained  by  selling  the 
fruits  of  your  gardens." 

"  I  have  no  gardens  of  my  own," 
quoth  he,  trembling.  "It  is  but  the 
common  concern  of  which  I  speak." 

"The  common  concern,"  she  said, 
with  a  dejection  of  her  body,  yet  her 
eyes  fixed  on  him.  "  The  common  con 
cern,"  she  repeated,  in  a  lingering,  wist 
ful  voice.  And  she  turned  her  eyes 
away. 

Well,  all  that  she  said  seemed  unjust 
and  terrifying  enough,  yet  her  fixed  look 
and  that  low  voice  of  sorrow  of  hers  had 
so  long  seemed  to  give  him  an  insight 
into  a  higher  reason  than  that  on  which 
our  justice  rests,  that  he  contained  him- 

F  81 


«BOBBO"AND   OTHER    FANCIES 

self  as  best  he  might,  and  in  a  moment 
found  voice  to  ask  her  wherein  lay  his 
fault. 

"Nay,  I  perceive  no  fault,"  she  mur 
mured,  but  ever  with  the  same  sad  look. 

He  adjured  her  to  answer  him,  of  her 
pity. 

After  a  pause  she  said  :  "  Is  it  for  me 
to  say?  Yet  what  of  your  constancy?" 

"  I  inconstant !"  was  all  he  could 
gasp. 

"Are  you  not?  For  instead  of  devis 
ing"  some  task  which  should  do  honor  to 

o 

us  both,"  she  said,  "  you  have  preferred 
ignoble  concerns  of  daily  life,  imperti 
nent  to  such  an  occasion  and  to  such  a 
love  as  mine.  Thus  what  should  have 
been  transcendent  has  been  degraded." 
Here  she  broke  off  again,  and  turned 
her  face  from  him. 

Alarmed,  he  bade  her  reflect  that  his 
request  was  but  born  of  the  moment. 
82 


LAST  SONNET  OF   PRINZIVALLE 

"  Do  you  not  give  love  the  moments  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  It  was  an  impulse  !"  he  cried. 

"  An  impulse  to  forget  me  ?"  said 
Madonna  Ghita. 

Hereupon  he  bent  his  head  and  pon 
dered,  and  after  pondering  lifted  his 
head  again  and  told  her  he  desired  she 
would  not  think  that  what  he  had  done 
was  unpardonable,  for  the  request  was 
not  in  itself  unmeet,  only  inopportune. 

"And  therefore,"  she  said,  gravely, 
"  worse  than  unmeet." 

With  a  sinking  heart  he  perceived 
that  this  left  him  without  reply,  and 
could  only  answer,  expressing  himself 
in  fit  terms,  that  he  hoped  she  would 
not  withdraw  the  high  confidence  with 
which  she  had  honored  him.  She  re 
sponded,  looking  at  him  now  with  sad 
kindness,  that  it  was  not  a  matter  of 
her  own  control,  but  that  if  he  had  in 
83 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

any  way  disturbed  that  confidence  it 
was  her  desire  and  hope  that  he  would 
restore  himself  without  delay.  And  she 
gave  him  her  hand. 

"And  could  you  think,"  she  said, 
"  that  I  would  wear  the  feathers  of  the 
beccafico,  knowing  that  they  were  pro 
cured  by  wanton  cruelty?" 

"  No  —  believe  me,"  he  answered, 
warmly.  "  Never,  dear  lady  !" 

"  I  will  no  longer  wear  them,"  she 
said,  and  looked  at  him  with  peculiar 
sweetness. 

He  fell  at  her  feet. 

Presently  she  continued  :  "  Yet,  Prin- 
zivalle,  I  must  in  candor  tell  you  this, 
that  if  I  yield  to  your  request  herein, 
the  recollection  of  your  inconstancy  will 
be  ever  present,  and  will  delay,  I  cannot 
tell  for  how  long,  the  return  of  the  su 
preme  communion  of  our  spirits." 

"  Then,"  he  cried,  "  if  that  be  so,  Ma- 
84 


LAST  SONNET   OF   PRINZIVALLE 

donna  Ghita,  wear  the  beccafico  feath 
ers,  I  pray  you,  and  wear  them  always ; 
and  not  only  for  that  reason,  but  in  re 
minder  to  me  of  the  heights  which  my 
spirit  must  have  ever  in  view." 

And  to  this  she  consented ;  unless, 
she  stipulated,  other  ladies  of  Florence 
should  cease  the  custom,  when  to  up 
hold  it  alone  might  render  her  conspic 
uous.  Thus  were  her  divine  favor  and 
her  sustaining  aid  renewed  to  him. 

And  as  Prinzivalle  knelt  once  again 
before  her,  professing  his  devotion  as 
of  old,  Ugo  degli  Carrecci  came  swiftly 
through  one  of  the  arches  of  the  hedge, 
and  men-at-arms  behind  him,  and  from 
the  two  other  sides  of  the  hedge  came 
other  armed  men.  They  ran  in  and 
closed  upon  Prinzivalle  before  he  could 
escape  to  the  river.  Madonna  Ghita 
gave  a  loud  cry,  and  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  struck  out  with  his  dagger, 
85 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER  FANCIES 

wounding  one  man  and  inflicting  a 
more  deadly  thrust  upon  another ;  but 
his  assailants  quickly  bore  him  to  the 
pround  and  bound  him.  When  he  was 

o 

secured  he  was  carried  to  the  house  and 
locked  in  an  inner  room — practically  in 
a  dungeon. 

It  was  time  for  Ugo  to  play  his  high 
stakes,  and  this  was  how  he  was  playing 
them.  The  flight  to  Constantinople  was 
a  blind,  of  course ;  he  thought  it  much 
safer  to  ambush  at  home  and  entrap  a 
hostage.  As  the  practice  of  those  times 
went,  it  was  no  uncommon  or  imperti 
nent  policy  —  always  saving  that  one 
point  of  honor  by  which  Ugo  set  so  lit 
tle  store.  Having  taken  and  bound  his 
enemy,  Ugo  wrote  to  Pico  della  Fer- 
nandina. 

But  Pico  sent  a  messenger  accepting 
the  terms,  and  then  followed  with  a  con 
siderable  troop  to  receive  the  hostage. 

86 


LAST  SONNET  OF   PRINZIVALLE 

And  great  formalities  were  observed; 
and  Prinzivalle  was  brought  out  from 
his  dungeon,  pale,  haughty,  and  darkly 
silent ;  and  he  and  Pico  embraced. 

And  Ugo  thought  his  game  was  won. 
But  he  was  doomed  to  disappointment, 
and  that  on  that  one  point  on  which  he 
made  so  little  account.  For  in  a  few 
words,  smooth,  courteous  in  their  phras 
ing,  but  deadly  in  their  significance,  Pico 
made  it  clear  what  men  expected  of  him 
— he  must  defend  his  honor. 

And  Ugo  saw  that  he  had  trapped 
himself. 

He  tried  a  last  card ;  tried  to  provoke 
Prinzivalle  then  and  there,  while  his 
eyes  were  still  dim  and  his  nerves  un 
strung  from  his  dungeon.  Pico  inter 
posed,  but  Prinzivalle,  on  fire  with  irre 
sistible  contempt  and  wrath,  caught  a 
sword,  set  on  Ugo,  disarmed  him  with 
a  pass,  and  then  slew  him  like  a  traitor. 
87 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

They  say  that  Madonna  Ghita  watch 
ed  the  fight  from  a  window,  and  when 
Ugo  fell,  only  said,  "  The  world  is  rid 
of  a  villain !" 

After  this  Fernandina  confirmed  to 
the  intendant,  who  rode  with  him,  the 
orders  Prinzivalle  had  received  from  Lo 
renzo  concerning  Madonna  Ghita,  and, 
leaving  the  intendant  in  charge,  they 
came  away. 

And  as  Prinzivalle  rode  homeward  his 
mind  was  full  of  his  wife,  Francesca,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  now  that  the  darkness 
of  Ugo's  dungeon,  and  the  sharp  touch 
of  Ugo's  sword  upon  his  own,  had 
taught  him  the  worth  of  a  love  that 
had  never  failed  him,  no  matter  how 
long  was  his  absence  or  how  cruel  his 
neglect.  Prompt  as  Fernandina  was  to 
act,  it  was  still  several  days  before  Prin- 
zivalle's  release  came ;  he  may  have  lain 
a  prisoner  in  Ugo's  house  a  week ;  and 

88 


m 

J 


LAST   SONNET   OF  PRINZIVALLE 

during  that  weary  se'nnight,  laid  up  in  a 
dark  room  with  a  wounded  and  aching 
head,  and  doubting  whether  any  attempt 
to  rescue  might  not  result  in  his  murder, 
he  had  plenty  of  time  for  nervous  reac 
tion.  And,  indeed,  as  he  meditated  on 
that  scene  in  the  garden,  he  could  hard 
ly  help  perceiving  that,  after  all,  Ghita's 
offer  to  him  had  been  voluntary  and  un 
conditional,  and  that  no  refinement  upon 
the  interdependence  of  spiritual  aspira 
tions  could  conceal  the  plain  every-day 
fact  that  as  soon  as  he  took  her  at  her 
word  she  withdrew  it.  Whether  or  no 
her  pride  was  properly  hurt  might  be  a 
question  ;  but  he  had  a  right  to  hurt  her 
pride,  if  he  did  it  in  good  faith.  Look 
at  it  how  he  might,  he  saw  his  idol  tot 
ter,  and  thought  with  bitterness  of  the 
way  he  had  been  treated.  And  when  he 
began  to  draw  contrasts,  what  did  he 
see?  On  the  one  hand  his  idol,  Ghita ; 
89 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

on  the  other,  his  wife,  Francesca  ;  on  the 
one,  danger,  self-abasement,  neglect  of 
home  ;  on  the  other,  quiet,  ease,  repose  ; 
on  the  one,  passion,  heart-burning,  servi 
tude,  and  disappointment ;  on  the  other, 
affection,  duty,  and  obedience ;  on  the 
one,  sonnets ;  on  the  other,  the  domestic 
hearth.  A  few  hours'  solitary  medita 
tion  upon  the  difference  between  the 
two  pictures  must  have  brought  him 
very  easily  to  the  resolution  which  was 
throbbing  in  his  head  by  the  time  Fer- 
nandina's  coming  relieved  him,  and  in 
which  his  dramatic,  fatal,  and  inevitable 
meeting  with  Ugo  only  strengthened 
him. 

For  home  he  went  at  once  to  Fran 
cesca.  And  she  flew  into  his  arms,  of 
course,  and  pressed  him  to  her  heart, 
and  laughed  and  wept  over  him,  and 
parted  his  hair  with  anxious  fingers  to 
assure  herself  that  his  wound  was  heal- 
90 


LAST   SONNET   OF  PRINZIVALLE 

ed,  and  felt  his  cloak  to  see  if  his  dun 
geon  had  done  it  harm,  and  tried  to  tell 
him  in  a  breath  how  she  hated  Ugo,  and 
how  nearly  she  had  died  with  fear  that 
her  husband  would  never  be  returned  to 
her  alive,  and  how  dreadful  had  been 
her  anxiety  during  that  terrible  week  of 
suspense,  when  nothing,  not  even  the  pet 
tiest  concerns  of  the  household,  would 
go  right,  and  when  she  must  have  utter 
ly  broken  down  but  for  the  kindness  of 
the  Fernandinas,  and  how  little  Beatrice 
had  learnt  to  clap  hands  for  Uncle  Pico, 
and  how  the  reports  from  the  vineyards 
were  already  better,  and  how  she  had 
such  a  good  dinner  for  him.  Ah,  did 
not  Prinzivalle  feel  repentant  then,  and 
choke,  and  catch  her  to  his  heart  once 
more,  and  call  her  his  own  true,  loving, 
long-suffering  wife,  from  whom  nothing 
should  ever  part  him  again?  I  warrant 
you! 

91 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

After  dinner,  when  they  were  sitting 
in  the  twilight  hand  in  hand,  her  head 
on  his  shoulder  and  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  and  something  of  a  silence  had 
fallen  between  them — they  had  talked  it 
over  now,  and  we  may  be  sure  that  with 
out  exactly  naming  Ghita,  Prinzivalle 
had  given  his  wife  to  understand  that  he 
was  cured  for  good  and  all  of  his  poetic 
follies,  and  was  heartily  glad  that  he  had 
returned  to  his  senses — all  at  once  he 
said : 

"  Oh,  by-the-way,  darling,  I  wish  you 
would  do  me  a  favor." 

"  Anything,  dearest;  what  is  it? 

"  I  see  you  are  wearing  those  dreadful 
feather  trimmings.  Soul  of  mine,  won't 
you  please  leave  them  off,  for  my  sake  ?" 

"  Prinzivalle !" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am  quite  in  earnest,  cara. 
Of  course  I  know  you  are  but  following 
the  fashion,  thoughtlessly,  as  all  you 
92 


LAST  SONNET  OF  PRINZIVALLE 

women  do.  But  it  is  such  a  cruel  fash 
ion,  and  so  bootless.  If  you  will  but 
stop  to  think,  you  will  see  that  in  ten 
years'  time  we  shall  not  have  a  song 
bird  left  in  all  Italy." 

His  wife  tore  her  hands  away  from 
his  and  sat  upright  and  aloof  from  him, 
her  cheeks  burning.  "  Shame  on  you  !" 
she  cried.  "  What  have  I  done  to  de 
serve  this,  Messer  Prinzivalle  di  Cem- 
bino?" 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Prinzivalle. 
"  My  dear—" 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me !"  she  exclaim 
ed,  her  breast  heaving  and  her  voice 
quivering  with  an  unborn  sob. 

"  But,  Francesca !" 

"  Have  I  not  been  a  fond  wife  to 
you  ?  Oh,  pitying  saints,  what  have  I 
not  endured  ?  And  I  have  been  patient 
—  and  loving  —  and  forbearing  —  and 
kind — and  I  have  only  thought  of  what 
93 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

would  please  you — as  a  wife  ought — 
and  I  have  never  once  complained — and 
now — now — when  I  have  been  nearly 
dead  with  fear  —  and  you  have  been 
wounded  and  in  prison — and  Ugo  might 
have  killed  you  just  as  easily  as  not — 
and  I  thought  you  had  come  back  to 
me  and  that  I  was  to  have  you  always 
to  myself,  Prinzivalle  —  the  first  thing 
you  do  is  to  scold  me  when  I  try  to 
make  myself  p-p-p-pretty  for  you  !"  And 
the  poor  child  broke  down  and  cried. 

Prinzivalle  essayed  to  console  her. 
She  struggled  mutely  with  him  for  a 
moment ;  then,  freeing  herself  with  a 
sudden  wrench,  she  rose. 

"  Go  !"  she  cried.  "  Go  bid  Ghita 
degli  Carrecci  plume  or  unplume  her 
self  for  you  !  She  knows  better  than  I 
what  will  please  you."  And  she  rushed 
from  the  room. 

After  this  Prinzivalle  wrote  his  sonnet. 
94 


RATU   TANITO'S   WOOING 


RATU    TANITO'S   WOOING 

THE     STORY    OF    THE    MAIDEN    EKESA 

AND   OF  THE  THREE   TESTS   OF 

KING  KATUBUA 


RATU  TANITO,  son  of  the  great  King 
Tui  Katubua,  dwelt  in  Viti  Levu,  which 
some  call  Fiji.  He  was  in  stature  like 
to  the  tree  mbaka,  and  a  light  shone  in 
his'  young  eyes,  so  that  his  presence 
could  be  known  at  night.  His  canoe 
sped  with  the  wind ;  his  dancing  in  the 
war-dance  brought  forth  a  great  shout 
from  the  people;  his  arm  broke  apart 
the  strongest  breakers;  and  men  called 
him  "The  King's  Arrow.'' 

Now  when  the  meke  was  ended  that 
G  97 


"BOBBO-AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

they  had  danced  on  the  eighteenth  birth 
day  of  Ratu  Tanito,  Katubua  called  his 
son  to  him,  and  said : 

"  My  son,  shall  my  line  end  with 
you  ?" 

Ratu  Tanito  answered :  "  Not  so,  my 
father,  for  I  will  marry." 

Then  the  king  said :  "  Ratu  Tanito, 
choose  a  wife,  observing  these  three  re 
quirements:  First,  that  she  be  young; 
second,  that  she  be  strong;  and,  third, 
that  she  be  obedient." 

"  My  father,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"is  it  not  also  a  requirement  that  she 
be  beautiful?" 

The  king  answered :  "  Obedience  is 
beauty." 

"  Tui  Viti,"  said  Ratu  Tanito,  "  I  have 
chosen  a  wife.  She  is  young,  for  she  was 
born  on  the  day  I  first  stood  erect.  She 
is  strong,  for  she  can  abide  the  grasp  of 
my  hand  without  flinching.  She  is  obe- 
98 


RATU   TANITO'S  WOOING 

dient,  for  she  has  honored  her  parents. 
And  she  is  beautiful  as  the  day  and  love 
ly  as  the  night.  When  I  see  her  my 
heart  is  as  a  basin  in  which  the  springs 
surge  hotly  up  and  fall  back  in  tumult." 

"Who  is  the  maiden?"  said  the  king. 

"  Her  name  is  Ekesa,"  the  youth  re 
plied.  "  She  dwells  in  Vanua  Levu, 
and  is  the  daughter  of  Savenaka,  its 
king." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  her  of  love?" 
the  king  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Ratu  Tanito. 

"  Go  and  speak  with  her  concerning 
her  parents,"  said  the  king. 

Tui  Katubua  having  thus  command 
ed,  Ratu  Tanito  departed  by  night  in 
his  canoe  to  Vanua  Levu.  And  on  a 
day  he  returned,  and  his  brow  was  clear; 
and  he  came  before  the  king,  and  said : 
"  Tui  Viti,  I  have  performed  your  com- 
99 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

mands,  and  have  spoken  with  the  maid 
en  Ekesa  concerning  her  parents." 

The  king  received  the  words  of  Ratu 
Tanito,  and,  looking  on  his  son,  said : 
"  Abide  now  with  me,  and  at  the  end  of 
seven  days  go  again  to  the  maiden,  and 
speak  with  her  concerning  war  and  com 
bats  with  the  shark."  And  Ratu  Tani 
to  did  as  he  was  commanded,  and  re 
turned  with  a  clear  brow,  and  said : 
"  My  father,  I  have  done  according  to 
your  commands." 

And  again  the  king  commanded  him 
to  abide  for  seven  days,  and,  returning 
to  the  maiden,  to  speak  with  her  con 
cerning  the  gods.  And  it  was  done  as 
he  commanded. 

Then  said  Tui  Katubua,  "  Go  now, 
my  son,  and  speak  with  the  maiden  con 
cerning  the  government  of  men."  And 
Ratu  Tanito  departed,  and  came  to 
Vanua  Levu. 

100 


RATU   TANITO'S 

But  when  he  returned  thence  his  brow 
was  clouded  and  his  eyes  were  angry, 
and  as  he  reached  his  father's  presence 
he  stepped  with  a  firm  step.  "  So  now, 
my  son,"  said  the  king,  "your  canoe 
has  met  with  a  mischance  and  has  been 
dashed  against  a  rock." 

"  Not  so,"  the  young  man  replied ; 
"my  canoe  is  safe,  O  father." 

"  I  grieve,  O  my  son,"  said  the  father, 
"  that  your  safe  departure  has  been  op 
posed  by  the  King  of  Vanua  Levu,  and 
that  he  has  sought  to  make  you  a  pris 
oner,  for  our  vengeance  will  fall  heavily 
upon  his  people." 

"  Savenaka,  King  of  Vanua  Levu,  has 
nowise  impeded  my  departure  from  his 
island,"  said  the  youth,  "  nor  has  he 
known  of  my  presence  there." 

"  And  yet  anger  sits  above  your  eyes," 
said  the  old  king. 

Then  Ratu  Tanito  composed  his  feat- 

IOI 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

ures,  and  said  to  his  father :  "  Forget, 
my  father,  that  I  have  given  way  to 
anger  because  of  a  trifle.  Ekesa,  the 
maiden  of  whom  I  spoke,  has  said  a 
foolish  thing,  and,  recollecting  it,  my 
spirit  was  disturbed." 

"  And  what  said  the  maiden  ?" 

"  Truly,  she  is  of  opinion  that  women 
are  of  equal  spirit  and  understanding 
with  men,  and  should  divide  the  gov 
ernment  of  human  affairs  with  them. 
I  think  such  were  her  words,  but  of  a 
verity  I  heard  not  certainly,  being  much 
provoked,  and  having  driven  my  foot 
against  a  root  as  we  walked." 

"Then  you  have  quarrelled  with  the 
maiden?"  said  Tui  Katubua. 

"  No,"  said  Ratu  Tanito,  "  I  am  not  a 
woman.  I  forebore  to  answer  her,  and 
after  she  had  spoken  for  a  time,  and  had 
sworn  she  would  marry  no.  man  who 
held  himself  her  superior,  I  left  her." 

IO2 


RATU   TANITO'S   WOOING 

Then  said  Tui  Katubua:  "Go  now, 
my  son,  and  take  war  canoes,  and  fetch 
Ekesa  before  me !" 

"  The  king  commands,"  said  Ratu 
Tanito.  "  But,  father,  I  no  longer  wish 
to  marry  the  girl ;  and  the  gods  forbid 
that  she  should  come  to  harm  at  my 
hands !" 

"  No  harm  shall  come  to  her,"  said 
Katubua.  "  Do  you  as  I  command." 

Accordingly,  Ratu  Tanito  took  war 
canoes  and  went  to  Vanua  Levu  and 
bore  away  Ekesa  by  force.  And,  re 
turning  to  Viti  Levu,  he  brought  her 
before  his  father,  who  sat  in  state,  sur 
rounded  by  his  chiefs  and  priests.  And 
seeing  this  array  about  her,  as  though 
to  judge  her,  Ekesa's  eye  flashed,  and 
she  looked  defiantly  at  King  Katubua. 
"  Mighty  monarch,"  she  cried,  "  do  not 
fear  me  ;  do  not  surround  yourself  with 
103 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER   FANCIES 

your  chiefs.  I  mean  you  no  harm,  and, 
indeed,  have  come  here  against  my  will, 
being  brought  a  prisoner  by  this  youth, 
one  of  your  people.  Set  me  free,  and 
chastise  him,  and  my  father  Savenaka 
will  thank  you  and  be  your  brother." 

"  It  is  my  son,  Ratu  Tanito,  who 
brings  you  here,"  said  Katubua. 

"Are  you  Ratu  Tanito?"  cried  the 
princess,  turning  to  the  young  man. 
And  she  exclaimed,  with  double  force : 
"  Then  you  are  the  greater  traitor!" 

"Maiden,"  said  King  Katubua,  "be 
assured.  No  harm  shall  befall  you.  Yet 
it  has  come  to  our  ears  that  in  Vanua 
Levu  the  women  are  the  equal  of  the 
men,  and  as  this  seems  a  strange  thing 
to  us  we  have  desired  to  see  it, tested, 
and  especially  to  inquire  whether  the 
women  of  Vanua  Levu  are  the  equals 
of  the  men  in  Viti  Levu.  For  that  rea 
son  we  have  sent  to  bring  you  here. 
104 


RATU   TANITO'S  WOOING 

And  we  will  propose  to  you  three  tests, 
which  if  you  answer  rightly  and  justly 
you  shall  depart  home  in  safety,  and  we 
will  offer  you  gifts  ;  and,  moreover,  you 
shall  lead  my  son  home  with  you  to  be 
your  slave,  as  a  reparation  for  the  wrong 
done  you.  This  I  swear  to  you  ;  and  he 
shall  compete  with  you  in  the  tests." 

Whereat  the  princess  cried  out. 

"  He  is  ignorant  what  they  are  to  be," 
said  the  king.  "  'Tis  a  fair  match.  Be 
hold,  he  is  as  much  surprised  as  you 
are." 

"  And  if— if  I  lose?"  said  Ekesa. 

"  You  shall  marry  him,"  said  the  king. 

Then  the  king  said :  "  Princess,  are 
you  ready  for  the  first  test  ?" 

"  But,"  said  Ekesa,  "  I  have  not  yet 
accepted  your  conditions." 

"  Ratu  Tanito,"  said  the  king,  "  be 
hold  your  wife." 

"Nay!"  cried  the  princess,  "I  am  in 
105 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER  FANCIES 

your  power.  Propose  to  me  your  tests, 
and  let  your  son  prepare  for  a  life  of 
slavery." 

Katubua  thereupon  caused  two  tur 
tle's  eggs  to  be  laid  before  the  princess, 
and  said :  "  Maiden,  of  these  two  eggs 
which  will  bring  forth  a  male  turtle  and 
which  a  female?  This  is  the  first  test 
that  we  propose  to  you." 

At  this  the  princess  crossed  her  arms 
upon  her  breast  and  laughed  scornfully. 
"  This  is  a  test  of  folly,  not  of  wisdom," 
she  said.  "  Not  all  the  men  in  the  world 
could  declare  of  which  of  these  two  eggs 
should  be  born  a  male  turtle  and  which 
a  female." 

But  Ratu  Tanito  stepped  forward 
quickly,  and  took  the  eggs  into  his 
hand  and  crushed  them.  "  Of  neither," 
he  said. 

Then  Katubua  said :  "  Maiden,  though 
106 


RATU   TANITO'S  WOOING 

in  truth  the  question  seemed  idle,  yet 
the  youth  is  right,  for  a  man  must  know 
when  to  act." 

Next  there  were  brought  forth  two 
bowls,  each  covered  with  a  mat  of  woven 
grass.  And  Katubua  said  :  "  This  is  the 
second  test.  Of  these  two  bowls  choose 
that  which  is  full  of  water." 

Ekesa  trembled,  but  quickly  stretched 
out  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  nearest 
bowl,  saying  :  "This  is  it." 

"  Choose  you,  now,"  said  the  king  to 
Ratu  Tanito. 

But  Ratu  Tanito  crossed  his  arms 
upon  his  breast  and  said  :  "  Not  so  ;  for 
who  shall  say  that  both  bowls  are  not 
empty  ?" 

Then  the  king  drew  away  the  mats 
of  woven  grass,  and  both  bowls  were 
empty.  "  Maiden,"  said  Katubua,  "  the 
youth  is  right,  for  a  man  should  know 
when  to  speak." 

107 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER    FANCIES 

Then  Ekesa  bit  her  lip,  and  said, 
"  You  juggle  with  me." 

"  Yet,"  said  Katubua,  "  the  youth  has 
detected  our  jugglery.  But  here  is  the 
third  test,  and  perhaps  you  will  still  win 
him  for  a  slave.  Which  loves  a  child 
better  —  his  father,  or  she  who  bore 
him  ?" 

Ekesa's  eyes  flashed,  and  she  drew 
herself  up.  "  Of  a  truth,  she  who  bore 
him,"  she  cried. 

Ratu  Tanito  turned  and  looked  upon 
the  girl,  and  slowly  there  came  into  his 
flashing  eyes  a  tender  light,  but  he  did 
not  speak. 

At  this  Ekesa  called  to  the  king: 
"Tui  Viti,  he  does  not  speak!" 

"And  he  is  right,"  said  the  king. 
"  For  a  man  should  know  when  to  be 
silent." 

Then  Ekesa  stamped  her  foot,  and 
cried  aloud,  in  bitterness :  "  It  was  a 
108 


RATU   TANITO'S  WOOING 

trap !  You  have  warned  him  what  an 
swers  he  should  make,  and  have  plotted 
between  you  to  shame  me!  Shame 
rather  on  you,  Tui  Katubua!" 

Ratu  Tanito  strode  to  her  side  and 
caught  her  by  the  wrist  and  said  :  "  Go 
back  to  your  people!  I  will  none  of 
you.  You  have  dishonored  my  father. 
Go  back  to  your  people !  Make  a  way 
there  for  the  princess !"  he  shouted  to 
the  crowd.  "  Make  a  canoe  ready,  and 
set  her  on  the  shores  of  Yanua  Levu." 

But  Ekesa's  eyes  fell,  and  she  did  not 
move;  only  stood  in  her  place  trembling. 

Then  Katubua  said :  "  Ekesa,  my 
daughter,  the  philosopher  Raveniza  has 
asked  :  '  When  should  a  woman  disobey 
her  husband  ?'  " 

And  Ekesa  lifted  her  tearful  eyes  and 
answered :   "  Never,  O  my   father,  save 
when  he  bids  her  leave  him  !" 
109 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

And  of  the  union  of  Ekesa  and  of 
Ratu  Tanito  was  born  the  great  King 
Ratu  Cakau,  whom  men  called  the  Seat 
of  Justice,  and  also  Vunivalu,  the  Root 
of  War. 


OLD  AND   NEW 


OLD    AND    NEW 


"  UPON  my  word,"  said  Eugenia,  sud 
denly  flushing  up,  "  I  should  like  to 
know  what  you  know  about  it." 

"  Eugenia,"  I  cried,  in  surprise,  "  you 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  are  rang 
ing  yourself  on  the  side  of  the  modern 
woman  ?" 

"  I  hope  I  belong  to  my  century,"  said 
Eugenia. 

At  this  I  laughed.  It  wasn't  an  un 
pleasant  laugh ;  it  was  as  glad  and  cheer 
ful  a  laugh  as  any  woman  who  doesn't 
insist  on  humming-birds  need  ask.  It 
was  a  healthy  masculine  laugh. 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "  I  fell  in  love 

H  113 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

with  you  because  you  were  such  a  typ 
ical  old-fashioned  girl." 

Upon  this  Eugenia  trained  herself 
upon  me,  so  to  speak,  and  in  so  doing 
slapped  the  top  of  her  parasol  into  a 
cherry  branch.  She  then  spoke  at  point- 
blank  range. 

"  Please  repeat  your  original  proposi 
tion,"  she  said,  incisively. 

"  It  was  merely  a  statement  of  fact,'* 
I  replied.  "  I  said  that  the  modern  wom 
an  didn't  appeal  to  me.  I  may  add  that 
I  had  some  hopes  that  this  sentiment 
would  appeal  to  you." 

"  Ah,"  said  Eugenia,  "  will  you  please 
look  and  see  what  has  happened  to  my 
parasol?" 

"  I  trust,"  said  I,  disentangling  it, "  that 
you  don't  intend  to  set  up  as  a  modern 
woman  to  punish  me." 

The  only  answer  Eugenia  returned  to 
this  was  to  say :  "  I  believe  you  expect 
114 


OLD  AND   NEW 

me  to  expect  you  at  ten  to-morrow — 
don't  you?" 

This  was  ominous.  But  far  above  my 
apprehension  of  coming  danger  rose  my 
sense  of  personal  indignity.  Of  course 
I  knew  as  well  as  you  do  that  the  mod 
ern  woman  was  only  a  stalking-horse — 
that  I  might  have  lauded  her  to  the 
skies,  and  Eugenia  would  have  been  just 
as  much  offended — and  that  my  real 
crime,  whatever  it  was,  was  something 
entirely  different.  There  are  times,  how 
ever,  when  the  contemplation  of  the  fact 
that  the  feminine  system  of  justice  is 
neither  retributive  nor  remedial  becomes 
irritating.  I  know  nothing  more  demor 
alizing  than  to  be  given  a  perfectly  ir 
relevant  punishment  for  an  absolutely 
indefinite  offence.  For  the  moment  I 
felt  a  rebellious  inclination  to  declare  for 
the  modern  woman  and  all  her  works, 
provided  only  that  business  intercourse 
"5 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER   FANCIES 

should  be  one  of  them.  But  I  said  noth 
ing. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  I  re 
ceived  a  note  from  Eugenia.  It  was 
couched  in  the  sweetest  possible  terms, 
and  gave  me  to  understand  that  the  af 
fliction  of  a  blinding  headache  made  it 
impossible  for  her  to  go  rowing  with  me. 
At  eleven,  accordingly,  I  saw  her  driv 
ing  down  Main  Street,  radiant,  with 
Philippus  Foster. 

"  Come,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  things  are 
not  so  bad  as  they  seem,  after  all !  Now 
I  see  my  way  to  an  explanation." 

So  I  remonstrated  with  Eugenia,  and 
Eugenia  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  and 
said,  "  But  you  must  be  mistaken.  I  was 
in  the  house  all  day  with  a  headache." 

I  gasped.  "  I  am  to  disbelieve  my 
eyes !"  I  cried. 

"  Certainly,  when  I  tell  you  to !"  And 
Eugenia  stamped  her  foot  and  frowned. 
116 


OLD   AND   NEW 

When  it  is  very  clear  I  can  see  the  sun. 
"  I  obey,"  I  said.  Upon  which  Euge 
nia  smiled  so  charmingly  that  (I  beg 
your  pardon,  but  the  fact  is  necessary 
to  my  narrative)  I  became  bolder  than 
I  ever  had  before,  and  to  my  utter  sur 
prise  I  found  the  atmosphere  so  benign 
that  I  forgot  about  the  explanation. 

That  evening,  at  the  Kebo  Valley 
Club,  Eugenia  treated  me  as  if  I  were 
non-existent,  and  Philippus  Foster  as  if 
he  were  the  central  planet  of  the  uni 
verse. 

So  I  said  to  myself,  "  If  this  is  a  game, 
let  us  see  if  I  cannot  draw  cards."  And 
I  amused  myself  after  the  usual  fashion 
of  retaliators. 

The  next  day  I  received  a  note  from 
Eugenia,  this  time  plaintive,  asking  why 
I  neglected  her  so  cruelly. 

The  state  of  bewildered  indignation 
into  which  this  threw  me  was  not  light- 
117 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

ened  by  the  sudden  consciousness  that 
I  was  painfully  anxious  for  the  society 
of  the  author  of  this  outrage — that  it 
was  an  imperative  necessity  that  I  should 
see  her  at  once. 

I  found  her  with  her  hat  on  and  a 
basket  on  her  arm. 

"  I  am  going  to  visit  the  poor,"  she 
said,  with  a  sweet  and  serious  look  at 
me. 

"In  Bar  Harbor!"  was  all  I  could 
gasp. 

"  And  have  we  no  duties  in  Bar  Har 
bor?"  Eugenia  said,  turning  her  eyes 
towards  heaven. 

"Yes;  but  where  are  you  going  to 
find  the  poor  ?"  I  cried,  desperately. 

"The  oppressed,  the  untaught,  the  be 
nighted  Indians !"  sighed  Eugenia. 

If  you  will  believe  me,  she  made  me 
escort  her  to  the  Indian  village,  where 
she  solemnly  distributed  jellies  and  med- 

118 


OLD   AND   NEW 

icines  to  those  immemorial  frauds  upon 
the  conscience  of  the  white  man.  And 
when  this  ceremony  was  over,  and  I  be 
trayed  a  pardonable  inclination  for  de 
parture,  Eugenia  halted  me. 

"And  are  you  going  to  give  them 
nothing?"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

I  had  nothing  to  give  but  money. 

On  the  way  home  Eugenia  was  pen 
sive.  At  last  she  turned  to  me  and 
said,  thoughtfully,  "And  yet,  can  we 
ever  be  sure  that  our  charity  is  bestowed 
on  deserving  recipients  ?" 

"  We  cannot,"  said  I,  grimly.  "  And," 
I  continued,  "  permit  me  to  beg,  Euge 
nia,  that  you  will  inform  me  once  for 
all—" 

But  Eugenia  interrupted  me.  "  Both 
er  the  old  Indians !"  she  said.  And  she 
smiled  an  exquisite  smile,  and  threw  the 
basket  into  a  clump  of  huckleberry 
bushes.  "  Now,"  she  said,  with  irresist- 
119 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

ible  self-satisfaction,  "  let  us  talk  about 
Me." 

The  next  move  in  this  comedy,  the 
drift  of  which  I  was  beginning  dimly  to 
perceive,  was  that  Eugenia  sent  a  copy 
of  verses  to  the  village  paper,  which 
printed  them  over  her  signature,  and 
accompanied  them  by  a  flattering  edi 
torial. 

They  were  addressed  to  Bald  Porcu 
pine,  and  began : 

"  Distant  islet  of  the  deep, 

While  I  hymn  thy  praise, 
Let  me  on  thy  rocky  steep 
Ever,  ever  gaze." 

I  forbear  to  quote  further.  But  hav 
ing  perpetrated  this  indignity,  she  in 
flicted  on  me  a  worse  torture  yet.  Have 
you  ever  seen  Eugenia,  that  woman  of 
sense,  affect  the  airs  of  a  Lydia  Lan 
guish?  The  most  amusing  sight  in  the 

120 


OLD  AND   NEW 

world ;  but,  oh,  it  was  death  to  me !  She 
lisped  the  whole  twelve  verses  of  that 
infamous  production  to  Philippus  Fos 
ter  at  dinner  at  the  Moxons',  looking  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye  at  me  the  while  ; 
and  when  he  told  her  it  was  superior  to 
Milton,  by  heavens  !  she  took  it  seri 
ously. 

After  dinner  I  said  to  her,  in  a  hoarse 
undertone,  "Are  you  aware  there  may 
be  people  in  this  world  who  don't  un 
derstand  you  are  joking?" 

"  Hush !"  said  Eugenia.  And  she 
brushed  her  hand  against  mine.  "Take 
me  out  on  the  porch." 

I  fell.  I  obeyed.  I  was  putty  in  her 
hands.  The  next  day,  if  I  had  had  any 
sense,  I  should  have  gone  up  the  coast 
to  Nova  Scotia.  Instead,  I  stayed  away 
for  twenty-four  miserable  hours.  Then 
I  wavered. 

There  was  a  gleam  in  Eugenia's  eye  ; 

121 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

but  she  turned  it  out  immediately,  and 
ordered  me  to  accompany  her  to  market. 
At  the  provision  store  she  floated  up 
to  the  counter,  and  in  a  heavenly  voice 
asked  for  a  quart  of  mutton  chops. 

After  the  confusion  occasioned  by 
this  had  subsided,  she  said,  complacent 
ly,  "  Now  I  shall  go  to  bank." 

She  handed  in  a  check  to  the  cashier, 
who  asked  her  to  endorse  it. 

"  Why,  isn't  it  all  right  ?" 

The  cashier  explained. 

"But  it  says,  Pay  to  me,"  said  Eu 
genia,  "  and  I  think  it  is  very  strange. 
We  have  been  coming  to  Bar  Harbor 
for  years,  and  my  father  will  be  very 
annoyed  —  really,  you  know,  when  one 
has  grown  up  here — and  it  is  only  for 
ten  dollars." 

I  was  as  red  as  a  beet,  but  Eugenia 
looked  so  bewitching  that  the  cashier, 
in  huge  delight  at  being  treated  so  con- 

122 


OLD   AND   NEW 

fidentially,  prolonged  his  explanations 
until  even  the  little  wretch  herself  grew 
tired,  and  contented  herself  with  endors 
ing  the  check  on  the  wrong  end.  Then 
she  turned  to  go  ;  shaking  and  in  deadly 
fear  I  accompanied  her.  Suddenly  she 
gave  a  scream:  "A  mouse!"  she  cried. 
"  There!  there!" 

With  a  bound  I  leaped  forward  and 
planted  my  foot  firmly  on  the  empty 
board. 

"  Where  is  it  ?"  cried  the  bystanders, 
hurrying  up. 

I  kicked  the  imaginary  corpse  under 
the  counter,  and,  leaving  the  gaping 
crowd  to  search  for  it,  hurried  Eugenia 
away. 

"  Eugenia,"  I  said,  sternly,  "  it  is  time 
for  this  masquerade  to  end." 

"  I  think  I  have  had  my  fun  out  of 
it,"  she  said,  laughing  most  abominably. 

"  I  admit,"  said  I,  politely,  "  that  you 
123 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

have  proved  that  the  modern  woman  is 
easier  to  get  along  with." 

"  Exactly,"  she  said. 

"  But,"  I  continued,  "  you  have  also 
proved  that  the  old-fashioned  woman  is 
infinitely  more  intoxicating." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Eugenia. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  I,  triumphant,  "  will 
you  kindly  inform  me  what  you  did 
mean  to  prove  ?" 

"  I  meant,"  said  Eugenia,  dimpling, 
"to  show  you  how  ignorant  you  were." 

Since  then  I  have  taken  what  I  could 
get  and  been  thankful. 
124 


VERSES 


A  VALENTINE   TO   A   CHILD 

SOME  day,  my  dear   Miss,  I  shall  call 

for  you 
In  a  light,  light  balloon  just  made  for 

two, 
And  drawn   by  three  wild  swans  in  a 

row, 

With  golden  harness  on  for  show; 
And  the  car  will  be  painted   a   shim 
mering  green 

With  silver  fancies  all  in  between ; 
There   will    be   advertisements   of   our 

ascension, 

And  glittering  banners  to  call  attention. 
And  just   as  the  clock  strikes  twelve, 

my  dear, 
On   the  very  tiptop  of  the  roof  you'll 

appear, 

127 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

And  stand  in  a  flowery  carpeted  place, 
Amidst  the  applause  of  the  populace; 
And  there'll  be  complimentary  bands 

to  play 

As  you  step  in  the  car  and  ride  away. 
And  I  shall  be  dressed  like  a  fairy  prince ; 
I  shall  smell  of  bergamot,  musk,  and 

quince, 

With  a  scarlet  cap  and  silken  hose, 
And  a  talisman  hidden  where  no  one 

knows ; 
I  will  rise  with  a  smile  and  make  you 

a  bow, 
Then    you'll    courtesy  as  deep    as   the 

car  will  allow  ; 
Then  you'll  shake  out  your  skirts  and 

sit  down  beside  me 
On  a  jewelled  seat,  which  will  be  sup. 

plied  me. 
You  will   drive  with   a   pair   of   silken 

reins, 

And  not  appear  to  be  taking  pains  ; 
128 


VERSES 


And   the    swans  will   make  three  dips 

and  a  bend, 
And  then  fly  straight  unto  the  end. 


PYTHIAS  ON  DAMON'S   BETROTHAL- 
RING 

AH  !  magic  circle,  here  we  see 

The  symbol  of  eternity, 

With  no  beginning  and  no  end — 

An  idle  symbol,  O  my  friend ! 

Eternity  begins  to-day, 

And  ended  only  yesterday. 

For  our  eternities  are  double, 

The  birth  of  joy,  the  end  of  trouble, 

And  each  new  day  shall  only  add 

Eternities  both  new  and  glad. 


BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 


"OPEN,  O  GATES  OF   HORN!" 

OPEN,  O  gates  of  Horn !   and  let  the 

dream, 

Timid  as  he  who  begs  its  aid, 
Slip  through,  nor   still  delay  its  flight 

To  that  unwakened  maid 
For  whom  I  long;   oh,  give  it  chance 

to  try 

If  to  her  pillowed  cheek  it  can 
A  tinge   faint-flushing  as  the  glimmer 

bring 

Of  dawns  Elysian, 
As  in  her  ear  it  whispers  low  the  tale 

Of  how  I  love,  and  how  I  wake, 
And  how  my  heart  will,  till  I  see  her 

face, 

No  comfort  take; 
Or  in  her  breath,  soft  watchman  with 

the  night, 

If  unsuspected  it  may  stir 
130 


VERSES 

A    hastening    sigh,   unto    her    waking 

dreams 

To  be  my  minister, 
As  with  suggestions  tender  it  beguiles 
Her  heart  that  now  unguarded  lies, 
And  weaves   reproaching   piteous    im 
ages 

Into  her  closed  eyes. 
Open,  O  gates  of  Horn !  and  if  it  fail, 

If  she  untroubled  wake  at  morn, 
Silent    it  will    steal   back    among   the 

mists, 
Like  me  forlorn. 


THE   USUAL  REACTION 

CAN  this  be  I  who  on  the  stool 
Of  silent  meditation  sit, 

In  all  the  club  the  only  fool 
Who  frank  confesses  it? 
131 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

And  John,  who  quickly  at  my  hand 

The  solitary  beaker  sets, 
Does  he  my  silence  understand  ? — 

I've  paid  my  debts. 

Unheeded  pass  the  gay  and  free 

Who    still    bloom    sportive    on    the 

stem — 
I  wonder  is  the  change  in  me, 

Or  can  it  be  in  them  ? 
No  longer  in  the  window  I 

Among  them  book  my  little  bets ; 
They  look  on  me  with   pitying   eye — 

I've  paid  my  debts. 

Is     Raceland     scratched?      Is    Tenny 

lame? 

In  faith,  I  do  not  care  a  rap; 
Alone  I  stand  outside  the  game, 

A  melancholy  chap. 
Here  fall  together  aces  four, 

There  spin  the  ravishing  roulettes; 
132 


VERSES 

Alas !  for  me  they  spin  no  more — 
I've  paid  my  debts. 

From  her  barouche  on  Union  Square 

A  killing  glance  Carlotta  threw, 
And  I  could  only  dumbly  stare, 

Carlotta,  dear,  at  you. 
The    light    which    shed    such    radiant 

tints, 
And  shone  round  all  you  sweet  pou- 

Iettes9 
Seems     somehow    to     have    vanished 

since 
I've  paid  my  debts. 

There  was  a  day,  there  was  a  night, 
They  blended,  and  you  reigned  o'er 

both; 
And  bankrupt  I  could  follow,  light 

Of  heart  and  nothing  loath. 
To-day  is  only  one  day  long, 
To-day  I  send  you  my  regrets, 
133 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

To-day  has  one  depressing  song — 
I've  paid  my  debts. 

0  too  insatiate  moral  law, 

Why  thus  upon  my  system  act  ? 
Who  swears  to  live  without  a  flaw, 

Need  he  do  so  in  fact? 
Yet  from  the  rosy-fingered  band 

Not  one  appeal  my  fancy  whets ; 

1  can't  forget  I'm  married,  and 
I've  paid  my  debts. 

—From  Puck 


THALIA'S  VIEW  OF   IT 

(WITH    HOMAGE    TO    MR.    ALDRICH) 

A  MIDDLE-AGED  lyrical  Poet  is  sup 
posed  to  have  taken  final  leave  of  the 
Muse  of  Comedy.  He  has  put  on  his 
hat  and  gloves,  and  is  walking  slowly 
away  down  a  winding  road  without 
134 


VERSES 

looking  back.    She  gazes  wistfully  after 
him  as  she  speaks: 

"When  were  December  and  May- 
Known  to  be  happy  together?" 

That  is  what  all  of  them  say, 
Each  at  the  end  of  his  tether. 

Yes !  when  too  heavy  the  dew 

Drops  from  the  firs  on  the  mountain, 

Or  the  rhyme  fails  to  fall  true, 

When  noon  laughs  low  by  the  foun 
tain. 

When  once  the  lark  pipes  too  long, 
Or  the  lute  too  loud  is  thrumming, 

Then  things  begin  to  grow  wrong, 
The  poor  Muse  knows  what  is  com 
ing  ! 

Fearful  his  kisses  grow  tame, 
Fearful  his  verses  grow  tamer ; 
135 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

Each  at  the  height  of  his  fame 
Wakes  Muse  and  Mistress  to  shame 
her. 

Ere  she  has  time  to  protest 
The  pine  shakes  lonely  above  her, 

And  he  is  gone  with  the  rest — 
Gone  to  grow  old  is  her  lover. 

Since  it  is  better  to  part, 

I  take  his  rose  for  my  laurel ; 

Treasure  his  face  in  my  heart — 
Tis  not  with  him  that  I  quarrel. 

O  moil  why  cannot  my  kiss 
Bestow  the  guerdon  denied  me? 

All  the  rhymes  gladly  I'd  miss 
To  keep  my  lovers  beside  me. 

Dear  hearts !  their  verses  will  live — 
That    was    what    they    made    their 
prayer  for  ; 

136 


VERSES 

That  is  the  guerdon  I  give — 
But  it  is  love  that  I  care  for! 

Time,  as  he  passes  by  me, 

Cheats  them   because   they   are   hu 
man  ; 
Where  is  the  one  who  will  see 

That  I  am  only  a  woman  ? 

Where  is  the  poet  who  will 

Trust  that  I  never  can  doubt  him  ? 
Nor  can  Death  conquer  him  till 

I  take  my  arms  from  about  him. 

Farewell !  no  more  to  the  grove 
Your  step  turns  willing  and  certain. 

Farewell !  no  longer  we  rove 

Where   night  draws  her  purple  cur 
tain. 

Farewell !  but —     Hist !  did  you  hear, 
Clio,  the  doves  in  a  flurry? 
137 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

A  stranger — young — fair — draws  near  ! 
Run,  leave  me,  you  goose  ! — hide  ! — 
hurry ! 

—From  the  Times 

A  RECEIPT   FOR  AN   IDYL 

WHEN  bosky  June  is  at  her  height, 

And  various  blossoms  blooming, 
Take  a  thick  grove  with  wild  flowers 
dight 

Adorned  by  beetles  booming. 
Induce  therein  a  man  and  maid — 

He  carrying  shawls  and  wrappings ; 
And    'neath    some    tree's    convenient 
shade, 

Let  him  outspread  the  trappings. 

She  should  be  pretty,  sweet  and  fond, 

And  given  much  to  pursing 
Of  lips  o'er  little  thoughts   she's   con 
ned, 

And  quaint  conceits  she's  nursing, 
138 


VERSES 

He  should  be  handsome,  de'bonnaire, 
A  trifle  shrewd  and  witty ; 

Of  course  aux  petit s  soins  with  the  fair — 
No  rustic,  but  from  city. 

There  let  them  talk:  throw  in  a  spice 

Of  conscious  affectation; 
Flavor  with  flirting,  speeches  nice, 

And  bashful  hesitation. 
A  little  glove  for  her  to  twirl, 

A  rose  for  her  to  finger — 
He  should  her  parasol  unfurl, 

And  o'er  her  bangles  linger. 

A  bird  is  needed  overhead, 

A  streamlet  near  them  flowing; 
Her  cheek  might  be  a  trifle  red, 

His  smile  amused  be  growing. 
Then,  when  at  dusk  the  careless  breeze 

Fails  with  the  light  diminished, 
As  home  they  loiter  through  the  trees 

You'll  find  your  idyl  finished. 
139 


BOBBO "  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 


A  SEQUITUR  TO  AN   IDYL 

A  LITTLE  headache  in  the  morn, 

A  little  pensive  yearning, 
As  curl  and  blister  slow  the  torn 

And  crumpled  leaves  she's  burning; 
She  thinks  she'll  ne'er  get  over  it — 

Was  he  the  only  sinner  ? — 
While  through  her  head,  grief-stricken, 
flit 

Consoling  thoughts  of  dinner. 

He  puffs   a  pipe  his  wrath  t'  assuage, 

His  hands  deep  thrust  in  pockets ; 
He  calls  her  jilt,  and  thinks  with  rage 

On  wasted  flowers  and  lockets. 
Thus  dolefully  the  morning  goes 

For  this  poor  frowning  smoker ; 
A  friend  drops  in  to  hear  his  woes — 

They  take  a  hand  at  poker. 
140 


VERSES 

O  summer  days  !     O  summer  gales  ! 

Your  whispers  are  deceiving  ! 
The  vows  we  swear  by  ocean's  sails 

Are  rarely  worth  believing; 
The  dryads  in  their  leafy  haunts 

Hear  oaths  that  never  bind  us  ; 
And  when  we  go  on  summer  jaunts 

We  leave  our  hearts  behind  us. 


DOUBT 

THE    narrow    teachings    of    a    formal 

school 

Impugn  my  better  self  with  carnal  ill, 

Dictating  me  unable  to  fulfil 

A  perfect  nature  but  by  stubborn  rule. 

My  toil  of  reformation,  then,  must  draw 

To  its  conclusion  on  a  beaten  track — 

But  who  can  pause  in  labor,  and  look 

back 

And  joy  to  miss  all  blemishes  he  saw? 
141 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

How  can  my  soul  eternity  contain, 
Perverted    by    this    tarnishment    of 

earth? 
And    how    can    it   possess   a  patent 

worth, 
By    mortal    touch    so    soon     debased 

again  ? 
Show  me  my  soul,  O  Lord  !   that  I 

may  see 
If  truly  it  is  fit  to  live  with  thee. 


A  REPUBLIC 

DESPAIRING  strength  has  left  her  si 
lent  limbs, 
To  gather  reckless  in  those  straining 

eyes, 
That  search  the  dimpled  ocean  and 

the  skies, 

Where  autumn  brightness  in  the  azure 
swims. 

142 


VERSES 

Ask  her  to  gladden  with  each  loosened 

sail 

That  swells  on  her  hereditary  seas  ? 
Ask  her  to  sing  with   every  harvest 

breeze 

That   blows   fair   increase   to  her  peo 
ple's  pale, 
While,  fat    and   gluttonous,  the    shiny 

Beast, 
The  loathly  thing,  Corruption,  stark 

and  fell, 
Rolling    entanglement    from    nether 

hell 
Through  easy  deeps,  will  on  her  make 

its  feast? 
O  Freedom  chained !  down  dropping 

to  the  wave, 

No  Perseus  swings  a  Gorgon's  head 
to  save! 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER  FANCIES 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 

THE  old  year  goes.    Could  we  delay  it, 
And  respite  of  our  future  borrow, 

With  what  affection  would  /  stay  it, 
And  linger  with  you  here, 
For  Sorrow's  sake,  my  dear, 
For  very  sorrow ! 

Alas  I  'tis  not  the  year  that's  from  us 

flying— 

'Tis  we  that  move ! 
And  must  we  leave  old  times  a-dying, 
While  we  to  follow  Time  are  trying? 
Shall  we    new   hearts    new-mould    for 

newer  sighing? 
Shall  we   new  pleasures  with   new  life 

be  buying? 

No  !  let  our  hearts  stay  here, 
For  friendship's  sake,  my  dear, 
For  very  love ! 
144 


VERSES 

SONG.    (From  "CHARLEMAGNE") 
Emma — (on  the  balcony}'. 

YOUNG  Time    sprang    up    when    the 

world  was  made — 
Somewhere  he  had  been  waiting — 
And    he   looked  with    delight   on   the 

world  displayed, 
Its  joys  anticipating. 
He    must    outlive    Life,    for    he    held 

Life's  measure — 
He  thought  that  he'd  outlast  Life  for 

pleasure — 
So  at  once  he  began,  on  Life's  first 

plan 
For  the  entertainment  of  beast  and 

man,   , 
By  falling  in  love,  as  his  first  sands 

ran, 

With    the    two    nymphs,    Haste    and 
Leisure. 
K  145 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

For    they   had    been    sporting    on    his 

track, 

While  Leisure  coy  behind  him 
Crept   slyly  along,  brisk  Haste  looked 

back, 

Appearing  surprised  to  find  him 
So  slow  when    his    chances  were    just 

beginning, 

As  if  his  hairs  were  already  thinning ; 
But   Leisure's   smile  had  a  pleasing 

wile, 
So  he  slackened  his  pace  for  about 

a  mile, 

Then  tarried  for  a  little  while, 
Bent  on  her  kisses  winning. 

But  Leisure  thought  that  Time  would 

keep, 

So  she  did  as  Nature  told  her: 
She   improved   the   occasion  by  going 

to  sleep, 

While  Haste  began  to  scold  her. 
146 


VERSES 

But  Time  thought  otherwise — back  he 

stepped  then, 
But  the  nearer  he  drew  the  deeper  she 

slept  then ; 
So   somewhat   hurt,  he   called  her  a 

flirt, 
He    left    the    nymph   with    blessing 

curt, 
And   seeing   that  Haste  looked  gay 

and  pert 
To  gain  her  side  he  leaped  then. 

But  Haste  responded  to  Nature's  call, 

And  as  soon  as  Time  had  started, 
While  Leisure  rose  to  gain  lost  Time 

Like  a  meteor  Haste  departed. 
But   Time  was   provoked   at  her  rude 

transition — 

It  somewhat  soured  his  disposition — 
So  till  this  day,  as  people  say, 
He   journeys    straight  the   self-same 
gait; 

147 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

While  Haste  is  dancing  on  before, 
Still   too    impatient    to   wait,   as    of 

yore, 
Leisure   can  never  catch  up  to  him 

more, 

Yet  goes  on  trying  to  mend  her  con 
dition. 


SONG.    (From  "CHARLEMAGNE") 
Eginhard: 

ONCE  a  maiden  wandered  where   the 

rushes  thicken  ; 
Young  she  was,  and  sweet  she  was, 

and  coy  was  she, 
Calling  Father  Time  his  lagging  steps 

to  quicken, 

So   that   she   the   sooner   might  her 
lover  see. 

And  it's  hasten,  Father  Time  ! 
And  it's  hurry,  Father  Time ! 
148 


VERSES 

Time,  you're  always  in  the  wrong,  I'm 

sure ; 
You  make  us  lovers  wait  too  long,  I'm 

sure. 

Emma  : 

Once  a  youth  stood  watching  autumn 

leaves  a-falling; 
Slow  he  was,  and    sad    he  was,  and 

fond  was  he ; 
He  held  a  little  hand  in  his  the  while 

he  kept  a-calling 

To   Father   Time,  who  strode  along 
relentlessly. 

And  it's  tarry,  Father  Time  ! 
And  it's  slower,  Father  Time ! 
Time,  you're  always  in  the  wrong,  I'm 

sure; 

You   never    give    us    lovers  long,   I'm 
sure. 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER  FANCIES 


SONG.    (From  "  CHARLEMAGNE  ") 

Egmhard—  (under  the  window) : 

To  name  the  half  of  all  that  stirs 
Beneath  the  ocean's  changing  tide, 

To  guess  what  strange  created  things 
Within  the  earth  do  bide, 

Such  marvels  Heaven  alone  can  trace, 

Inspired  strains  alone  embrace. 

So  love  has  depths  that  none  declare, 
And    breadths    that     mortals    none 
have  spanned, 

For  it  is  deeper  than  the  sea 
And  wider  than  the  land. 

Therefore,  what  marvels  in  it  move 

I  cannot  tell  when  I  name  Love. 


VERSES 


SERENADE.    (From  "  CHARLEMAGNE  ") 

I  WILL  not  ask  the  wintry  gale 

In  numbers  to  be  sighing, 
Soft  as  if  April  to  my  tale 

A  burden  were  replying ; 
I  will  not  ask  that  it  shall  take 

To  where  my  love  lies  sleeping, 
This,  this  my  song,  until  she  wake 

Its  echo  for  her  keeping. 

I  will  not  ask  a  dream  to  steal 

Beneath  those  eyelids  tender, 
And  to  the  sleeper  so  reveal 

The  message  I  would  send  her; 
Messenger  dream  nor  gale  shall  be 

Swift  to  her  pillow  freighting — 
Because  I  know  too  well  that  she 

Wakes,  and  is  yonder  waiting! 


BOBBO"  AND  OTHER   FANCIES 


DIANA  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKERS 

I 

MOST    mannish    goddess,   tailor-made 

and  straight, 
Your  classic  limbs  unclassically  skirt- 

ed, 

With  upright  head,  clear  eye,  and  fear 
less  gait, 

A  bunch  of  roses  at  your  breast  in 
serted, 

II 

You  pace   the   city:    from  the  groves 

to  you 
Shepherds,    pipes,    pastorals,    poets 

have  seceded — 

Like  Liberty  herself,  you're  parvenue, 
Mistress,  which  means,  like  her,  you 
have  succeeded. 
152 


VERSES 

III 

Leaving  what  hills,  why  love  you  here 

the  flags? 
Whence    runs   your    blood,  so    cold, 

and  yet  so  splendid? 
A  huntress,  you — to  dog-carts  and  to 

drags, 

Say,   have    the    hamadryads   all    de 
scended  ? 


IV 

The  anxious  fawn  from  no  cool  spring 

is  fled 
That  fears  your  arrows  in  the  chase 

unerring, 
When  the   red   sun  burns  all  the  sky 

to  red — 
I    doubt    if   quite  so    early  you    are 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER  FANCIES 

V 
And   yet    the   spring   flows  cold  from 

faucets,  too, 
White  gleam  your  shoulders  out  of 

tulle  and  laces, 
As   through  the  branches  they  should 

gleam  did  you 

Some    day   return    to  woods    again, 
and  chases. 


VI 

I    half    expect    it ;    but    you'll    longer 

stay 

To  ride,  and  fence,  and  play  at  ten 
nis,  won't  you  ? 
Themselves  the  shepherds  rise  at  break 

of  day 

No  more — and  you  prefer  the  club 
men,  don't  you? 
154 


VERSES 

VII 

Yes,    stay.      Far  be   the   quiver    from 

your  back — 
Still  wear   dressed  boots  instead   of 

thongs  and  sandals, 
Still    chaff   with    actors,    call    Actaeon 

"Jack," 

And    laugh  —  I  wish   you  wouldn't, 
though — at  scandals. 


VIII 

Kind  you  may  be,  to  whom  the  world 

is  kind, 
And   generous,  who  never  lacked    a 

penny ; 
I   leave   that   score   to    any  you    may 

find 

Apologist  —  for  you  —  the  fools  are 
many. 

155 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER   FANCIES 

IX 

I  don't  apologize:  the  world  must  move. 
I    hate   the    things  which    most    de 
lightful  strike  you ; 
My   soul    revolts    at   what    you    most 

approve, 

But,  O  Diana!  oh,  how  much  I  like 
you  ! 

— From  Puck. 


AFTER  CHURCH 

UNDER  lattice,  arch,  and  gable, 
Up  and  down  the  Sunday  street, 
When  the  congregations  meet, 

Much  I  love  to  follow  Mabel. 

Much  I  love  the  sunlight  glancing 
On  the  ranks  of  new  top-hats, 
And  upon  a  figure  that's 

Close  in  front  of  me  advancing. 
156 


VERSES 

From  the  columns  of  St.  Peter, 
From  the  arches  of  St.  Mark, 
-One  would  say  each  city  spark 

Had   run   headlong  here  to  meet  her. 


Can  you  count  how  many  roses 
She  has  fastened  in  her  dress? 
Of  the  beaux  that  round  her  press 

You  may  count  as  many  noses. 

Each  succeeding  congregation's 
Way  she  does  in  turn  obstruct ; 
There  should  be  a  viaduct 

Over  Mabel  on  occasions! 


All  the  new  top-hats  are  doffing, 
All  the  bonnets  toss  again ; 
They  are  always  tossing  when 

Mabel's  sighted  in  the  offing. 
157 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

Yes,  an  easy  first  she  still  is, 
Still  the  girl  to  make  a  stir, 
Much  I  love  to  follow  her — 

And  to  walk,  myself,  with  Phyllis. 


REMEMBERED 

I  WROTE  you  rhymes  in  idle  times, 
In  idle  times  you  read  them ; 

In  sober  times  you  now  forget 

The    rhymes  —  the   hand   that   sped 
them. 

Sober,  alas !  but  they  will  pass  — 

No  day  outlives  the  dial. 
The  jocund  years  go  quick?    Well,  so, 

So  go  the  years  of  trial. 

And  then  at  last,  when  these  are  past, 
Come  years  of  rest  from  sighing, 

158 


VERSES 

From    laughing    too  —  and    then    the 

rhymes, 
Which  now  forgot  are  lying, 

Will  still  beguile  a  fleeting  smile 
For  girlhood  lapsed  and  rusty — 

A    quickening    thought    of    younger 

days, 
Ere  younger  hopes  grew  musty. 

So  romance  goes  beneath  the  rose, 
Still  trifles  please  our  folly ; 

And    still    they  please    our  wisdomed 

heads, 
Grown  white  beneath  the  holly. 

And  so  life  goes  most  like  the  rose : 

When  e'en  the  thorn  is  blunted, 
Some    tattered    leaf    still    shows    the 

bush 

Has  not  been  always  stunted. 
159 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

RONDEAU   A   LA  MODE 

Lui : 
LOVE  is  enough! 

Elle: 

We  first  must  buy 
Or  build  a  house  with  ceilings  high, 
With  tapestries  on  brazen  hooks, 
Stained  window-panes  and  cushioned 

nooks — 

Our  china  must  make  artists  sigh. 
Wax   candles'   light    shall    soothe   the 

eye, 

Fitted  in  gleaming  sconces  high ; — 
Brass  mirrors  shall  reflect  our  looks. 

Lui  : 

Love  is  enough ! 
160 


VERSES 

Elle  : 

Venetian  glasses  twisted  wry 
We'll  have,  and  rugs  of  Moorish  dye, 
And  vellum  bindings  on  our  books — 
And  oh !  we'll  have  Parisian  cooks — 
To  us  no  Irish  need  apply. 

Lui  (feebly)'- 

Love  is  enough ! 


TO  MRS. 


Upon  the  Feast  of  St.  Valentine 

THE  day  appears,  with  sudden  sighs 
And  telltale  looks  attended, 

When  yielding  hearts  are  taken  prize 
That  once  were  well  defended. 

The  day  appears,  but  you  no  more 
Can  dread  its  pleasant  dangers ; 

L  161 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER   FANCIES 

Although  you  knew  him  well  before, 
The  saint  and  you  are  strangers. 

No  longer  can  he  charge  the  breeze 
With  whispers  to  detain  you — 

He  lost  you  from  his  devotees 
When  first  he  'gan  to  gain  you. 

The  trees   may  bud,  but   not   for  you 
He  starts  the  sap  a-flowing; 

Not  your  contentment  to  undo 
He  sets  the  west  a-glowing. 

You  need  not  fear  his  tender  wile 
That  other  breasts  engages ; 

He  rubbed  your  name  out  quite  a  while 
Ago  upon  his  pages. 

But  when  he  passes  you  to-day, 

Despite  your  dereliction, 
He'll  pause  upon  his  busy  way 

To  breathe  a  benediction. 
162 


VERSES 

LAUDO   MANENTEM 

I  PRAISED   her  while  she   stayed — she 
had  my  heart ; 

I  gave  it  her  with  all  good-will. 
Now  she  has  left  me,  facile  to  depart — 

I  praise  her  still. 


VARIUM   ET   MUTABILE 

SINCE  Eve's   departure  from   Paradise 

Lost, 

Tho'  fiery  swords  surround  it, 
The  time  of  your  sex  has  been  given 

up 

To  making  men  think  they've  found 
it. 

Such  honest  atonement  is  only  just — 
But  why,  I  beg  of  you,  ladies, 
163 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

As    soon    as    you've    soothed    us  with 

that  belief, 

Do  you  give  us  foreknowledge  of  Ha 
des? 

THE   LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH 
CRICKETER 

(At  Philadelphia,  1880) 

SURE   the    Philadelphy    cricketers    are 

handy  wid  the  ball — 
Ye    know  how  the    Quakers'   bowling 

played  the  divil  wid  us  all ! 
An'   they  batted    us    thremenjus ;    we 

were  in  a  purty  mess — 
Yet   I'd   be  whisperin'  to   ye  the  rale 

truth  of  our  distress. 

Ah,  bedad !  it  was  unmanly.  To  be 
certain  of  our  stumps, 

They  hatched  schemes  —  I  can't  for 
give  um,  though  they  thrated  us 
like  thrumps. 

164 


VERSES 

Faix,  they  fetched  a  crowd  of  colleens, 
brown  and  fair  and  tall  and  short, 

All  as  charming  as  Aurora  whin  she 
holds  her  rosy  court. 

And  they  ranged  um  round  the  crick 
et-field  and  inthrojuiced  us  all — 

May  the  divil  fly  away  wid  me  if  I 
could  see  a  ball! 

There  was  one  swate  duck  in  muslin, 
who  had  hair  like  fine-shpun  gold, 

Waved  her  handkerchief  at  Colthurst, 
and  next  minnit  he  was  bowled. 

Every  man  of  us  fell  that  way.    There 

was  Trotter,  first  man  in, 
Had   been  blarneying   a  darlint   till  I 

told  him  'twas  a  sin, 
And  the  fielders  all  were  ready—"  Ah !" 

saysee,  "jooce  take  the  match!" 
And  he  walked  out  to  the  wicket  and 

popped  up  an  aisy  catch. 
165 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

That's   the  way  thim   Quakers   served 

us — div  ye  think,  now,  it  was  fair 
To  becloud  our  eyes  wid  petticoats  all 

wavin'  in  the  air? 
To    relax   our    sturdy  sinews  wid    the 

touch  of  gentle  hands? 
To   confuse    us   till  we   fielded   slower 

nor  lobsters  on  the  sands? 

Twas  a  thrick,  and  that  I'll  sware  to ! 

None  the  less,  now,  niver  fear, 
We'll    spend    all   our   time   colloguing 

with  ache  purty  little  dear, 
But  whin  we   play  the    Merion,  mind, 

that's  Chewsday  of  this  wake, 
Not  a  gyurl  gets  in  to  watch  us — Mr. 

Times,  you  hear  me  shpake ! 


VERSES 


ARCHAEOLOGY 

MEN  find  Time's  keepsakes  of  an  age 

forgot 

Hid  in   the   nooks   and   crannies    of 
the  earth, 

A  flint,  a  statue  in  a  buried  grot, 
And  hail  with  reverence  their  second 
birth. 

They   hear,   while    standing  with    un 
covered  head, 

Echoes   of   lives  whose   souls   perhaps 
are  dead. 

But  we    have    chanced    upon    a   won 
drous  thing ; 
The  sweetness  of  a  life  that,  slighted 

there, 
Dreamed    itself    over    from    a    bygone 

spring, 

An  idyl  fresh  from  Arcady  the  fair — 
167 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER   FANCIES 

Dear,  from   the   Golden  Age  our  love 

is  lent, 
Its  heart   still  young,  its   essence  still 

unspent. 

"  How  do  you  think  it  understood  our 

speech  ? 
How  did  it  know  us   as  we  loitered 

by? 
Do  we   remind  it  of  those  two  whose 

reach 
It    fluttered    from?"     So    questions 

she;  but  I: 
"  We  woke  it,  dear ;  a  sleeping  beauty 

this, 
That  slept  and  waited  for  us  both  to 

kiss." 

—From  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct.,  1880. 


VERSES 


AMALA'S  SONG.    (From  "  MONTEZUMA  ") 

LONG  years  ago  4 

In  Mexico 

An  ancestress  of  mine — 

Amala    was     her    name,    the     legend 
mentions — 

By  yonder  lake, 

Whose  waters  break 

Where  now  the  temples  shine, 

Declined,    one   night,  a   deity's   atten 
tions  : 

The  god  Quezalcoatl ! 

In  vain  he  pressed  upon  her  his  affec 
tion ; 

She  could  not  stand  his  coppery  com 
plexion. 

This  to  a  god 
Was  something  odd 
169 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

In  annals  Mexican, 
Especially  from  such  a  dusky  lady  : 
And  for  his  part, 
As  much  to  heart 

As  if  he'd  been  a  man 
He  took  the  intimation  he  was  shady: 

The  god  Quezalcoatl ! 
Exclaiming,  "  I'll   return  a  blond,"  he 

hied  him, 

And  jumped  into  a  crater  close  beside 
him. 

As  soon  as  he 
Had  left  her,  she 

Of  course  became  dismayed 
That  she  had  been  so  deaf  to  his  be 
seeching  ; 

And  though  for  days 
To  watch  the  place 

She  by  the  crater  stayed, 
He  ne'er  returned,  and  still  (they  say) 
is  bleaching : 

170 


VERSES 

The  god  Quezalcoatl ! 

But  he  will  come  with  golden  hair  re 
splendent 

To  claim  (they  say)  her  loveliest  de 
scendant. 


SONG.    (From  "  MONTEZUMA  ") 

IN  peace  or  war,  by  night  or  day, 
The  steady  step  of  Sorrow 

Is  ever  treading  on  the  way 
That  brings  with  her  the  morrow. 

And  when  she  names  her  children,  then, 
Whatever  the  path  before  them, 

The  mother  of  all  mortal  men 
Stands  on  it,  waiting  for  them. 

Farewell,  my  sweetheart !  Darling,  since 

The  perils  that  beset  me 
Bring  me  to  die,  I  die  a  prince, 

And  as  a  prince  forget  me. 
171 


"BOBBO"  AND  OTHER  FANCIES 

AT  THE  POMME   DE   PIN 
(From  "  FRANCOIS  VILLON") 

1.  Chorus  of  Taverners 

HERE  at  the  Pomme  de  Pin, 

His  friends  among, 
Jest,  ballade,  and  quatrain 

Made  he  and  sung. 

We,  whom  the  gallows-tree 

Has  waited  long, 
Were  all  the  friends  that  he 

Gained  by  his  song. 

2.  Chorus  of  Taverners 

The  vine  that  Noah  planted 
Has  grown  up  to  the  sky — 

The  grapes  must  be  enchanted, 
They  hang  so  wondrous  high  ! 
172 


VERSES 

The  thirsty  world  grows  sadder, 

So  high  they  hang  in  air; 
We'll  climb  up  Jacob's  ladder 

And  press  the  vintage  there. 

j.  Song  of  Villon 

Who  in  Paris  streets  is  born 

Naked  'neath   the   crumbling  rafter, 
Vagrant,  needy,  and  forlorn, 

They're  his  world  forever  after. 
Ever  after  they  shall  be 

Meat    and    drink    to    him,   and    rai 
ment. 
For  of  life  they  make  him  free, 

And  they  take  his  soul  in  payment. 

Who  in  Paris  streets  is  born 

Minstrel,  with    the    wind    for    mas 
ter, 

He  can  hold  a  king  in  scorn, 
While  his  ballads  flow  the  faster 
173 


"BOBBO"  AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

As  he  sees  before  him  move, 
In  their  pageant  never  ending, 

Human  joy  and  human  love, 
Human  passion,  all  transcending. 

Of  that  pageant  e'er  a  part, 

He  by  turns  is  prince  and  varlet. 
Red's  the  blood  that  warms  his  heart, 

Though  his  sins  should  be  as  scarlet. 
Nursed  by  them  in  vice  and  want, 

These  alone  can  ne'er  deceive  him, 
And  for  all  his  shrift  is  scant, 

While  he  lives  'tis  life  they  give  him. 

Who  to  Paris  streets  returns 

Minstrel,  with  the  wind  for  master, 
And  once  more  their  freedom  earns 

Is  but  to  them  bound  the  faster; 
And  his  song  with  fire  shall  glow, 

And  his  heart  with  love  be  burning, 
Since  the  streets  that  bore  him  know 

How  to  pardon  him  returning. 
174 


VERSES 

BALLADE  OF  THE  SAINT  ON  EARTH 

(From  "FRANQOIS  VILLON") 

I 

A  SAINT  on  earth  there  was  long  syne, 

Holy,  chaste,  and  self-denying — 
On  bread  and  water  he  would  dine, 

To  prepare  himself  for  dying. 

To  this  fare  himself  applying, 
He,  with  faculties  collected, 

Died  at  last,  devoutly  crying, 
"How  I'll  dance  when  resurrected!" 

II 
But  ere  the  judgment  day  could  shine 

All  the  land  in  sin  was  lying, 
And  from  the  grave,  to  be  a  sign, 
He  was  raised,  repentance  crying. 
Crack !  his  thin  old  legs  went  flying 
In  such  gambols  unexpected, 
175 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

All  the  sinners  ceased  from  sighing — 
How  he  danced  when  resurrected ! 

Envoi 
Prince,  you  need  not  think  I'm  lying, 

Sinful  lives  may  be  corrected — 
But  the  saints,  though  sin  defying, 

How  they'll  dance  when  resurrected ! 


LES   DAMES   DU   TEMPS   JADIS 
(From  "  FRANgoiS  VlLLON") 

Song 
SAY  in  what  land  is  Flora,  she 

Whom  once  they  loved  at  Rome? 
And  Thais,  who  her  twin  might  be, 

Where  makes  she  now  her  home? 
Let  echo  say,  that  aye  by  mere 

And  river  answering  goes, 
Is  beauty  more  than  mortal?    Where 

Are  last  year's  snows? 
176 


VERSES 

And  Heloi'se,  the  fair  and  wise- 
Could  Abelard  foresee 

That  love  and  her  enthralling  eyes 
Would  bring  such  misery? 

Where   is   she    now?     And   fierce  and 

fair, 
Where  is  the  queen  whose  foes 

The  silent  Seine  closed  over?    Where 
Are  last  year's  snows? 

Where    is    Queen    Blanche,    the    lily 
white, 

That  like  a  siren  sung — 
The  duchess  that  of  Maine  was  hight, 

Dame  Alice,  sweet  and  young ; 
And  Joan  of  Arc,  in  Rouen's  square 

Whose  soul  to  heaven  rose. 
Ah,  Mary,  Virgin  Mother,  where 

Are  last-  year's  snows  ? 

M 


BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 


PILGRIM 

HEAVEN  is  where  I  hope  to  go, 
But  how  shall  I  cross  the  mountain? 

You  must  climb  over  rock  and  craggy 

stone, 
And  so  you  shall  cross  the  mountain. 

Heaven  is  where  I  hope  to  go, 
But  how  shall  I  cross  the  forest? 

You  must  find  your  way  by  bush  and 

tree, 

And  so  you  shall  cross  the  forest: 
You  must  climb  over  rock  and  craggy 

stone, 
And  so  you  shall  cross  the  mountain. 

Heaven  is  where  I  hope  to  go, 
But  how  shall  I  cross  the  river? 

178 


VERSES 

You  must  build  your  boat  of  the  wood 

thereby, 

And  so  you  shall  cross  the  river: 
You  must  find  your  way  by  bush  and 

tree, 
And  so  you  shall  cross  the  forest. 

Heaven  is  where  I  hope  to  go, 
But  how  shall  I  cross  the  desert? 

You    must    fill    your    stoup   with    the 

water  of  life, 

And  so  you  shall  cross  the  desert : 
You  must  build  your  boat  of  the  wood 

thereby, 
And  so  you  shall  cross  the  river. 

Heaven  is  where  I  hope  to  go, 
But  how  shall  I  pass  the  angels? 

You  must  do  good  deeds  as  you  tread 
the  road, 

179 


"BOBBO-AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

And  so  you  shall  pass  the  angels : 
You    must    fill    your    stoup    with    the 

water  of  life, 
And  so  you  shall  cross  the  desert. 

Heaven  is  where  I  hope  to  go, 
But  how  shall  I  find  my  Saviour? 

You    must    lead    by  the   hand   a  little 

child, 

And  so  you  shall  find  your  Saviour : 
You  must  do  good  deeds  as  you  tread 

the  road, 
And  so  you  shall  pass  the  angels. 


BEFORE  GRADUATING 

ONLY  a  few  steps  more — 
A  breath,  while  I  look  back 
Upon  the  bending  track 

I've  pressed  in  coming  o'er 
1 80 


VERSES 

The  grassy  fields  of  youth — 
The  light  stalks  straighten  up, 
The  cowslip  lifts  the  cup 

I  scarcely  brushed,  in  truth. 


My  way  so  soon  forgot  ? 
The  dust  in  that  highway 
Which  I  must  tread  to-day 

Would  longer  keep  the  spot ! 

Still  to  my  mem'ry  cling 

Dim  shadows  of  regret 

From  where  each  flower  was  set- 
Alas  !  the  idle  spring ! 

Its  harmonies  divine 

Cheated  the  cares  it  brought, 
And  unawares  I  thought, 

These  are  world-cares,  not  mine  ! 

181 


"BOBBO"AND   OTHER   FANCIES 

And  now  the  road  is  near 

Where  ceaseless  thousands  tread 
The  footsteps  of  the  dead 

To  see  their  own  appear. 


And  I  shall  join  the  throng 
To  struggle  toward  the  hills, 
Whose  lowering  silence  chills 

The  first  that  near  along! 


Hush — I  will  choke  the  sigh 
Striving  in  sobs  to  swell ! 
I  do  not  sound  the  knell 

When  I  my  Future  try 


Of  all  my  earthly  joy — 
Yet — as  I  longer  pause 
Ere  I  fulfil  the  laws 

That  change  me  man  from  boy, 
182 


VERSES 

And  linger  with  the  scene 
That  I  must  leave  to-day — 
Again,  again  I'll  pray  : 

''  Lord,  keep  my  memory  green  ! 


THE   END 


"Bol ' 

fanciei 


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